


My Fair Magna

by PossessedAlien



Category: Black Clover - Tabata Yuki (Anime & Manga)
Genre: Ace!Magna Swing, Assassination attempts, Blood Loss, Gunshot, I hope you’re ready to see Magna suffer, Imprisonment, Is that a JoJo reference?, Like Magna suffers a lot, Magna Swing reads pass it on, Shameless My Fair Lady plot, Starts fluffy but gets serious, The Black Bulls are one big happy dysfunctional family
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-15
Updated: 2020-02-12
Packaged: 2020-08-14 05:24:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 15
Words: 42,384
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20186983
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PossessedAlien/pseuds/PossessedAlien
Summary: Magna Swing has an extremely important mission dropped on his lap. It will be Hellishly difficult— maybe the toughest job he’s ever had.The manliest man among the Black Bulls needs to learn how to become what he hates most: Nobility.Canon divergence, Eventual romance.





	1. Everything Right Is Wrong Again

Sunbeams speckled through the study’s window in beautiful golden rays, the faint chirping of birdsong rang like chimes, and the panicked, ear splitting screams of training were over for at least the moment.

With his boots propped up on a coffee table where they had that nice dented spot from him exclusively loafing in this exact position in the study, Magna flipped the page of some chapter book he’d gotten _very_ invested in.

It bears mention that he’d actually bothered with reading because Luck was out for the weekend, and therefore ‘fighting for absolutely no reason’ wasn’t a choice of leisure.

Okay, so maybe he wouldn’t admit it out loud, but a good book was kinda kickass to relax with after training was over with, and the childrens’ tome in his hands was no exception. He rolled his left shoulder, trying to shake the soreness out of it while he readjusted his back.

Now, the reason for reading a children’s book in the first place was because Gordon had hoarded all the base’s dictionaries into his creepy alcove in the library. Not even Magna had the gall to intrude on a man who was so desperate for privacy, so it was simpler reading for the Yankee at the moment. And despite how far below his typical reading level this little novel was (it almost wasn’t) Magna found himself hunching forward, and squeezing the covers of his enrapturing read.

Flipping the page to discover how Akiko was going to liberate herself from the empress’s prison on the planet Smoo, the ‘manly man’ heard some loud crashing sounds approaching his comfy spot— and _fast_. This racket was the most normal thing conceivable in the base, so he ignored it even when the cacophony was upon him.

It was more like an explosion than not, the bang the study’s door made when it a hole was punched clean through it. The young knight still barely reacted.

“Hey Magna, I have some hilarious news!” Yami guffawed through the door’s new aperture before smashing the plank off its hinges to barge into the room properly. Kicking the splintered hardwood into the hall for Asta to tidy up later, the enormous man began his ‘funny story’.

“Okay, so hear this: Some loser noble is being sent out of the Clover Kingdom as an ambassador.” Yami said, holding back chuckles in much the same way a colander holds water, “It’s a diplomatic mission to some enemy nation, rife with dangers like flaky biscuits, and being bored to death.”

Magna chuckled aloud at the news, setting his book down to greet the captain with a smile. “Hahaha! That mission sounds awful, boss! Must suck to be _that_ guy!”

“Yeah! It really sucks to be _you_! Ahahaha!” Yami replied through tears, no longer able to hold back his fits of laughter.

“Yeah boss, my life kinda suc— Wait, _WHAT_!?”

The fire mage chucked his reading at the ceiling, bolting upright in indignation. “You mean Me!? But I’m not one of those stuck-up jerks from the castle town! What the Hell?!“

“You sure aren’t, but the nobles are all too scared, busy, or important to take this mission on.” Yami said, wiping the tears from his eyes as he explained, “You’re the least important, busy or scared chump out there, so it’s up to you to be the snotty loser who vouches for us.”

Magna’s novel smacked him in the noggin like a falling meteorite, but the fire mage didn’t react to the welt it left— too absorbed in the ridiculous news to pay it any mind. Adjusting back his bent sunglasses while going into full ‘don’t make me do this’ mode, Magna said, “Not to be rude, but I’m not exactly a ‘snotty loser’, Captain. There’s no way I’m qualified for this!”

“Oh? Huh, I hadn’t noticed.” Yami said, as if he actually meant it. “Well, in that case you’ve got to _become_ a snotty loser. Y’know, sipping tea, writing calligraphy, ballroom dancing, talking all ‘proper’, dressing like a buffoon… stupid fancy shit like that.”

Only remembering this last detail in the moment, the Black Bulls’ captain amended, “You have two weeks.”

The punk’s eyes nearly busted through his shades, and his jaw slacked open, “T-two weeks?! Calligraphy!? Dancing? You mean like _learning_ that crap? But that’s hardly any time at all!”

“It isn’t, but the nation’s monarch demanded an envoy within the month.” Yami said, as if it really weren’t imperative, “The other captains say it could ‘destabilize our political situation’, or ‘escalate into rampant bloodshed’ if we don’t meet their demands.” He took a theatrical draw from the cigarette hanging between his teeth. 

“The month ends in thirteen days, and you’ll be starting from square one… so I suppose you’ll just have to—”

“—Surpass my limits?” Magna ventured.

“Interrupt me again and you’re _dead_.” His captain snapped back with murderous intensity.

Brushing back his messy hair to calm himself, Yami planted a hand onto the shorter knight’s shoulder and conceded. “But, uh, yeah, the fate of the Clover Kingdom lies with you becoming the picture of a fancy-pants gentleman. You have two weeks to become our ambassador so… do it.”

“I, I won’t let you down boss!” The street punk said, saluting with his usual undue vigor.

“You Goddamn _won’t_, or you’re dead meat! Your training starts now—“ the Captain plucked Magna off the ground and tucked the boy under his arm like a stuffed animal. “—and it’s gonna be pure Hell.”

As the fire mage was spirited away from his leisurely peaceful spot, he mourned how much further his book was getting from him. When his head got banged on the doorframe on the way out, the only thing on Magna’s mind was a simple question:

_Why me?_


	2. Don’t Let’s Start

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Magna is anything but prepared for how grueling nobility training is. Noelle has been put in charge of his introductory lesson, and she’ll just have to suffer too.

—————————————

Sitting in the same study as yesterday—though on the opposite side of the castle due to Henry’s interference—Magna mourned his inability to prop his boots on the table. Sitting up straight was evidently one of the most important things a nobleman did, judging by how hard Noelle was drilling him on it.

He also mourned the disgusting ‘food’ on his plate, and the fact that despite being _surrounded_ by books, he wasn’t the slightest bit allowed to read them; this was strict training time.

The silver-haired young woman and Luck sat opposite the spitfire as he balanced a plate between his thumb and index finger, and a certain children’s book he was _desperate_ to read atop his head. They were in the midst of lessons one and two of his gentrifying regimen: Propriety in posture, and ‘How to eat like a proper gentleman’. 

Sitting up straight was easy enough for him, seeing as his nasty slouching habit was just to keep up his meticulously crafted tough guy image… although, that copy of Aliko _did_ land on his foot a few too many times during the walking exercises. Squeaking in pain as a children’s book hits your tootsies does nothing for one’s reputation.

But like _Hell_ Magna didn’t know how to ‘eat properly’— you just used a fork instead of your hands, right? He couldn’t have been more wronger. 

Yeah, he also needed to work on language, but that was a whole other lesson.

It turned out there were a _crapton_ of different forks, and while he tried to intuit which one might be for salad—in this instance, the pile of wet lawn that sat on his plate—the fire mage only found his hand being slapped away from the choice he’d made. 

“Ow! Dang it, Noelle! What was that for?” He said, nursing the hand that got lightly slapped by Noelle’s newspaper.

“That was the meat fork, try the one with thinner tines, Insect.”

Grumbling softly to himself while his stomach grumbled, Magna grabbed at the most minuscule piece of silverware, which his instructor promptly blasted from his hand with a water jet. 

“Wha— again?!” He whined, appalled that he wasn’t allowed to even pretend to eat.

“I suggested the fork with the narrowest tines, _not_ the smallest overall fork.” Noelle corrected, pointing her finger towards the right dining utensil, “Knowing the difference between the eight pieces of fine silverware by heart is imperative in keeping up the image of nobility.”

“Then why can’t we just label them?! My head hurts.” I’ve never eatin’ with more‘n one piece of silverware before— back at home it was spoon _or_ fork!”

“The whole point of this exercise is so you might plainly know which piece of your dining set is to be used without looking.”

“And why wouldn’t labels help with that! And goddammed _what_ is Luck here for?! He doesn’t eat fancy— er, uh, I mean fancily!” 

Noelle tsked, keeping her posture perfectly straight while she reminded the hot head, “He agreed to cook for our etiquette lessons, and he’s being a great help about it.”

“But this ‘salad’ is just a chunk of crap the little bastard ripped out of the ground outside _that_ window!” Magna shouted, one finger pointed at the divots in the lawn a few feet outside the study.

In one smooth and silent motion, Noelle brought a napkin to her mouth to extricate the scrap of lawn. Acting precisely as though she hadn’t eaten a quarter pound of dirty grass, she told her student, “It’ll do for our purposes, and stop swearing— you sound like the peasant you are!”

“What‘d’ya _mean_ it’ll do? What’s the point of eatin’ fake food if I just need ta’ remember dumb shi-” he coughed, “uh, ‘stuff’ about forks! Besides, I haven’t eaten in like seven hours!”

“Hmph. Well, _I’ve_ eaten like royalty.” Mistress Silva replied as haughtily as she could.

“No! _You’ve_ eaten a pile of dirt, raw fish, and snails!”

“Most of those are foods fit for a Queen.”

“I watched you eat a poker chip!”

Finally snapping, Noelle raised her voice back, screaming at her student, “Yeah, while _you_ were eating one!”

“So maybe I got so hungry I ate a poker chip— what’s _your_ excuse!?”

“Shut up, shut up, shut up!! You even used the wrong fork for the poker chip!”

“How the Hell could _any_ of them be right!?”

“Thicker tines! As if a dirty, boorish, peasantly insect would know!!”

“Well _excuuuse_ me princess! I— eeep!” The book pile slid off Magna’s head as he gesticulated in frustration and then landed square on his toes, dredging up a yelp from the depths of the man’s soul. 

It also caused him to spill wet dirt over Noelle’s lap, thereby eliciting her response of chucking her—half eaten—plate of topsoil right at his face. The two grime coated knights bolted upright, and started categorically screaming at each other— partly about silverware and propriety, but mostly just loud, wordless _shrieking_.

While the tutoring session erupted into absolute mayhem, Luck clutched at his sides in glee. “Hahaha! This is fun!”

————————————-

Twenty eight seconds later, to put off the mental anguish of elucidating to someone poor and stupid the minutiae of _tine thickness_, Noelle ordered for Luck to bring out the Tea, chitchat, and biscuits course.

With the tray out, and replete with all necessary accoutrements for leaf-juice based relaxation—sans the confections—Magna and his teacher poured themselves a drink.

“Teatime isn’t so much about the drinking as it is the polite company. Now, to prove yourself affable, give us a _proper_ smile.” Noelle commanded in her ‘holier than thou’ tone, having corrected her perfect posture from the emotional turmoil forty seconds ago.

Magna let a good-natured grin grow across his face until he looked like someone you wouldn’t want to see in a dark alley, and as his teeth shone like those of sharks towards the woman sitting his opposite, it seriously creeped her out. 

“Ehck! You have the smile of a murderer!” Noelle spat in thinly veiled revilement, “We _need_ to work on that, you dirty peasant.”

“What’cha talkin’ ‘bout?” Magna drawled, taking the insults in stride, “That’s just my amazin’ ol’ smile!”

“—And you use _far_ too many apostrophes when you speak.”

“Y’all’d’v’— uhh… I mean, no I do _not_.”

Noelle sighed. “When one can’t say something nice or even _correctly_, a noble’s response preferred option is silence.”

Her suffering student opened his mouth primed with a crass insult to hurl, then thought better of it; clenching his fists without the options to slouch, scream or keel over in protest as the battle maniac finally arrived with their cookies.

“Ah, the biscuits, thank you, Luck.”

Magna gave a polite nod of his head before biting into their delivered confection; it took only until the cookie touched his tongue for him to gag violently. Sounding like a goose with gravel trapped in its throat, he exprctorated violently.

“A nobleman doesn’t spit his food out in front of company— no matter _how_ vile: The correct method is to use a napkin when no eyes are on you.” Noelle stated.

Magna ignored her instructions outright, scraping his tongue and spitting the remnants of the disgusting confection out of his mouth, “Good God, what’s in these cookies?! They’re awful!”

“Bugs!” Luck cheerfully replied from a few seats away.

Noelle’s face went pale with horror, and she screamed at her assistant teacher, “Dammit, Luck! I ate those cookies too!”

“Just kidding!” The impish battle maniac said, giggling to the room, “They’re filled with _raisins_!”

“God dammit!” The fire mage screamed as he smashed his opulent teacup into on the floor, before stomping the fine ceramic into a fine powder. “Goddamn raisins! Worse than bugs! Why is this happening to me!?”

“Well, you’ve gotten a lot better at that.” Noelle commented while gazing upon the dust that remained of her sixth favorite teacup. “Now let’s try again, but calmer.”

“Aww, just a cup? I wanted to watch him smash a table again.” Luck whined from his perch atop a splintered mound of cheap furniture, just as Magna had assumed the poise demanded of him.

The street punk shot his closest friend a glare that could peel the paint off a barn, but before any sound came from his mouth, Noelle said, “You will remain silent if you have nothing nice to say to Luck.”

Her words of reprimand to Magna caused the irate man to slip back into his perfectly personable, smiling posture, but it gave Luck a more devilish idea.

“Hey, Magna.” The manic mage said, egging on his ‘friend’ to face him. When the fireman turned, he was greeted by the words, “You’re a stupid head.”

“_Keep smiling._” Noelle demanded.

“Yankee!” Luck shouted; the street punk just grinned.

“You ate raisins!” He grit his teeth, but kept on smiling.

“You’re cute when you’re mad~” Now the fire mage was blushing too.

“Dummy dumb-dumb! You have a pea brain, and you even _smell_ like an idiot!”

Magna’d already had it up to here, so the poor guy couldn’t last: A blood vessel burst in his head after that onslaught, and he fell backwards off his lavish stool, but remained perfectly poised. A tiny, personable smile decorated the man’s features while blood pooled onto the floor about his head.

Luck gazed over the ottoman cushion at his friend’s motionless body. Wearing a killer grin as he regarded the other boy, he said to Noelle, “Oops. I think I killed him.”

“And he was doing so well…” the noblewoman said, shaking her head at the unconscious street punk. She stuck a small gold star sticker onto his lapel, and looked back at her assistant. She needn’t say anything, everything tacit was obvious to Luck, who just grinned as he said:

“Don’t worry, I’ll get the blood mop!”


	3. Rhythm Section Want Ad

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Next up to bat for the unenviable task of training Magna is Grey! But will ballroom dancing be any more bearable than etiquette? 
> 
> Probably, but it won’t hurt the poor guy any less.

Magna was tripping over his own feet, unless he just tripped over Asta’s. Wait, that’s unless those were Grey’s? Either which way, as he struggled to keep balanced to the strains of a waltz, the punk was entrenched in the torturous nightmare of lesson three: _Ballroom dancing_.

When it’d come time to discuss the dancing portion of training Magna, it was to _everyone’s_ surprise that Grey volunteered themselves as his instructor. It had turned out that the diffident mage knew everything there was to know about the subject, but, as should already be evident by the classless street punk’s distress, there were _problems_ at play here.

For starters, Grey couldn’t bear to face anyone without transforming, so Magna was locking hands and matching steps with the spitting image of himself… and also Asta. Because it was obvious that three people could practice a dance that specifically required two— plus the runt’d volunteered as hard as his little heart could. Another complication was that it just so happened that the few dance techniques the greenhorn-nobleman knew didn’t carry over to partner dancing in the _slightest_.

Magna tried going into the twirling step of the choreography, but his foot caught around Asta’s ankle, and the yankee took a huge tumble prone onto the floor; landing flat on his face, and taking the whole dance class down with him… on top of him. The soon-to-be ambassador wheezed softly from the bottom of their pile, unable to see or breathe while his friends wriggled above. 

With a quiet, yet somehow chipper groan from the stack’s acme, Grey said, “Okay Asta, I think you should operate the music artifact for now. I need to run through this next part with Magna alone.”

“Yessir, Grey Sir!!” Asta saluted with his usual vim from the center of the heap, before seemingly teleporting beside the musical magic device. 

As the two other knights scraped themselves off the floor to dance again, Magna mumble-asked himself, “But if it’s a partner dance, didn’t you need to run through the _whole_ thing with me alone?”

Asta figured out the mystical gramophone-doohickey while the shyest of the three dancers helped Magna into position; offering both hands to hold as they moved into the studio’s center. One of her mitts traveled down to Magna’s hip in time for the record to start up.

Music began to fill the air, the pair stepped in rhythm, and with a voice uncannily identical to their student’s, Grey told the noble in training, “When taking the lead, you need to be gentle. Notice how I’m guiding you by your waist _and_ hand.”

“Mm hmm.” Magna affirmed, if somewhat nervously; though he was still struggling to keep his footsteps in 3/4 time, Grey’s hands were guiding his movements perfectly. They kept in rhythm with him, stepped back and forth—just barely not stomping each other’s toes—then raised a hand above Magna to give him a little twirl.

The street punk might’ve been embarrassed if being led like this weren’t so much fun. 

He paid as close attention as possible to his teacher’s legs while the orchestral music wafted peacefully through their makeshift studio. Falling into the rhythm, Magna couldn’t believe how well the dance was going, with no bruised thighs, sprained ankles or flaming clothes on his part. And although he knew better than to not expect disaster, the hapless yankee couldn’t help but smile.

This _was_ fun.

Everything changed when the the third big dance move came up, and like was obvious to the man, Magna lost his footing and took a massive fall backwards… but didn’t hit the ground. A blush spread across his face as he realized Grey had _dipped_ him, their hand still supporting him by the waist. 

He let out an adorable ‘peep’ while his instructor helped him back upright, the older mage smiling at their charge as he flushed a light shade of pink. “See, the waist is really important to keep hold of. You almost fell.”

“Asta, please reset the music.” Grey called while guiding their student’s hand to their own hip. Chuckling softly with a curtsy, the transformation mage said to Magna, “Now, by your lead.”

Taking care not to look too anxious, the manly man shouted, “I’ll give it my all!” and started their choreography from the top— swaying softly to get into tempo.

He got stepped on while they started the footwork, but the timing wasn’t off, and as the dance continued Magna only got better at each step. Grey was having a blast sharing their hobby with a squad mate she rarely hung out with, and thanked the stars it wasn’t in their true form.

Both knights were laughing with glee until they reached the last move, where the transformation mage found themselves dipped in turn… _just_ as their ‘look like anyone but myself spell’ wore off. Meaning the impossibly bashful Grey was face-to-face with Magna in their true form, and just froze up. 

The two knights stayed together in the dip for longer than was comfortable—and in perfect silence—until Magna asked his meek friend, “Is this right?” 

In response, they shrieked, “Don’t look at me!” at approximately two decibels, and fell over like a frightened goat.

As Grey curled up into a tato-red ball on the lacquered wood floor, Asta threw a sheet over them. 

“Th-thanks…” mumbled the lumpy beddressings with ample gratitude.

The peasant boys gave Grey a moment to snuggle deeper into the blanket before saying anything more. Crouching beside the blue haired mage as they shook like a hairless chihuahua in the Arctic circle with a fan blowing on it, Magna asked his instructor, “So… was that good? I think I’m getting the dip part, but you, uh, kinda shrieked.” Then, feeling guilty, the man wondered aloud, ”Wait, I didn’t hurt you or nothin’, did I?”

“Oh, n-no that was good. J-j-just run through it again with Asta, I’ll join in when my m-mana comes back.” Grey mumbled whilst backing the rest of the distance into the corner. With only one eye visible from under the blanket, they reactivated the waltz track and watched over the makeshift ballroom.

A thumbs-up from under the sheet filled Magna with relief, and he gave one right back to the cowering enby. 

The younger dance students exhaled from the bottom of their lungs, matched steps into the center of the makeshift ballroom, and joined hands with a soft crunching sound.

“Asta! Don’t crush my hand!” Magna howled, his face twitching as a twinge of pain shot up his arm.

“Heheh, sorry!” The shorter boy chuckled, truly abashed, “I always have to remind myself, ‘Asta, this is a dance, not a bone-smashing handshake’!”

“Bitch, how could you _possibly_ get those things confused?!”

Not avoiding the boot coming down toward his foot, Asta explained with a wince, “Well it’s something Father Orsi had to tell me, so now I tell it to myself! _Always_ trust dance advice if it comes from a man of the cloth. That’s what the old people say!”

“Wait wait wait, you used to ballroom dance with a priest?” Magna asked while leading his shorter friend by the waist, a little perplexed by everything he’s been saying.

Making sure to remind the hothead the next direction with a flick of his eyes, Asta replied, “Yeah! We didn’t have many toys at the church, but Sister Lily could play the organ! And Father knew a couple dances from his time in the common realm!” 

The punkish knight twirled his partner when Grey cued for them to, and while he spun, Magna signaled for the white haired boy to keep talking— squeaking softly as his feet got trodden on once again. “It was super fun when we put all the furniture in the corner and learned to dance! None of us got super amazing at it, but Yuno and I know how to waltz. It’s why I was so excited to teach you!!”

“Huh, I guess you’re just fulla’ surprises, shortstack.”

He almost dipped Asta correctly; it was picture perfect except for the part where their foreheads collided like crashing trains. Each boy whined with pain, but put on a face that screamed ‘tada’ for the teacher.

“Nice! You’ve got the first four steps down!” Grey cheered while casting aside the blanket that served as their cover; all confidence regained in the form of Finral.

“Woah, really?” Magna asked, “Hahaha, yeah! Go me—! Wait…” the man caught himself before getting too chipper, knowing there’d be a big catch if this lesson were _anything_ like the previous two. “Four of how many steps?”

“Ten.” Grey responded with a beam.

“Hey, that’s not bad at all—“

“—In the first of seven dances!”

_God dammit!_ Magna internally screamed.

The primary teacher strutted across the dance studio towards Magna with their head held high, gleefully shouting, “Don’t worry, it’ll be fun! We’ll start from the dip, and run through to step eight and—”

Mid speech, ‘poof’ went their transformation; up in a tiny plume of smoke when the spell’s mana ran out again. Grey’s very next step managed to miss the floor, and they fell face flat in one giant, parabolic arc— shrieking the entire way down. They _also_ managed to bowl their student over in the fall, hitting the taller man dead in his chest.

There was another loud wheeze.

In trying to stand up, the blue-haired mage found themselves face to face with Magna; eyes mere inches apart as Grey’s blush grew. Her hands were bordering the spitfire’s head and their lips quite nearly met, as they gazed silently into his pupils. The bashful woman was outright paralyzed.

“Grey…” their handsome student whispered, looking up at his teacher with a vermillion tint to his face.

“Um, uhh…”

“Get offa my damned ribs… I can’t breathe…”


	4. Nothing’s Gonna Change My Clothes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Magna can’t just walk and talk the part of an ambassador— he’s going to have to dress like one too. This might be too tall an order even for a skilled fashionista like Vanessa.

In the depths of the women’s dorms, lesson four in Magna’s personal Hell was well underway: Dressing like a Nobleman.  
He’d been dreading this stage most, terrified of any changes to his ‘perfect’, masculine style. Despite all his fears, the nascent nobleman couldn’t have known just how reprehensible this was going to be.

“Vanessa, I— hurgh!! I don’t think corsets are for men!” The spitfire whined as his alcoholic friend tightened the laces even harder; digging a heel into him for extra yanking leverage, even while he wheezed.

She’d sobered up the second she heard about a makeover—even if(or maybe especially since)it was for a guy—and rushed over to give it her all. Now she just had to justify her choices in dress to her toy- er, um… something besides toy. Vanessa would have to figure that out later. “Nonsense, I know cute nobles who wear fashionable shit like this all the time.”

As Magna looked over his profile by peering down at his tight new breeches and pinched waist, he asked Vanessa a question very important to himself, “Were any of those nobles _men_?”

“Ahem.” She coughed, suddenly incapable of looking in his direction, “At least some were.”

“Were any of them _manly_ men?” The fire mage presses further.

Vanessa at that point rolled her eyes, tacitly defeated by his inane questioning, “Ugh, why is it so important that you look all ‘masculine’ or whatever?”

“Aw c’mon! It should go without saying!” Magna said like it almost hurt, “The tough guy thing is kinda my whole image.”

“You mean your image isn’t supposed to be ‘delinquent virgin’?”

“Nuh-uh! I ain’t no delinquent!” He said, rebutting only half of the witch’s teasing with a slight blush, “And I ain’t wearing no corsets! Not even in some snotty loser disguise!”

Vanessa chuckled at her friend’s refusal to ever deny his virginity; she tied his corset laces together with the words, “But it makes you look cute.”

“I am _not_ cute.” The scar-faced boy pouted cutely.

“Are you kidding?” She asked with an arched eyebrow, “You look like a begging puppy right now.”

“What— no way! I’m not even the slightest bit cute!”

“Oh yeah? Then explain _this_.” Vanessa said as she pulled a mirror in front Magna to prove her point.

The instant the spitfire saw his reflection pouting and blushing in a tight corset, he smashed the glass into a thousand shimmering splinters. Breathing as if he’d just waken from a nightmare, this thought crossed Magna’s mind:

_God dammit… I do look cute._

“Now come on, let’s see how much cuter you can get!” Vanessa said to him, approaching with two fistfuls of gaudy accessories and a malevolent smile, “I’ve got bows, and ribbons, and—“

“Wait! Get back! Die!!” Magna shouted like a cornered rat, flaming bat summoned to his hand as he tripped backwards over miscellaneous trash hanging around the women’s’ quarters. The adorable man took a spill, landed on his rump but kept scrambling away, setting things aflame as he fled the pretty ribbons and flowers that encroached.

With a glint in her eye, Vanessa made chase.

Soon enough, the whole room caught fire.

—————————————————

Several minutes of dousing a conflagration later, Finral had joined the witchy woman in dressing their resident punk up like an upstanding nobleman (although his presence was mostly to keep the property damage to a minimum). 

With his assistance, Magna had been successfully wrestled into three-quarters of an ambassador’s regalia. Shockingly enough, a pink flower rested in the manly man’s hair, the only cutesy accessory he would accept from the duo’s extensive collections.

At the moment, the self-professed lover boy was adjusting Magna’s ascot, but deep in thought regarding the whole ‘face’ part of the ensemble. When Finral looked at his friend’s forehead scar and serial killer smile paired with those punk-ass sunglasses, he _knew_ which would be the easiest thing to fix.

“Yup, the sunglasses gotta go.”

These horrifying words broke Magna’s poise in an instant; the younger knight scurrying away from his friends to shout, “Nuh-uh! No way pal! These babies are like my baby! No touchy-touchy!”

“But they make you look like a delinquent.“ Vanessa said to make their case against his ‘babies’. “Listen, I’ve snuck into like, a dozen upscale soirées and I’ve _never_ seen someone wearing shades. Hand ‘em over already.”

“I will do no such thing!” Magna shouted, arms crossed and nose pointed skyward.

“And why not?”

“Because!”

“That’s not a reason, and you know it. Now tell us why.”

Suddenly unable to meet his squad mates’ eyes, the masculine corset-wearer mumbled out, “It’s _because_… they’re… mumble…”

“Huh?” Both fashionistas asked, Magna’s words well beneath hearing.

“I said, uh… they’re… hmmbmmle…”

“What was that?” Finral asked, leaning in closer, “I couldn’t quite hea—“

“I SAID THEY’RE PRESCRIPTION!!” He screamed, scream-ily.

After cleaning the ringing out of their ears, the two biggest fashion geeks Magna knew shouted in perfect stereo, “Whaaaaat?!!” causing him to shrink back in embarrassment.

“So that means—?” Finral asked with _that_ look on his face, making his punkish friend regret speaking at all.

“That means—!” The string mage gasped, fingers splayed in front of her agape mouth. Magna’s legs turned into pudding; whatever these two were about to say was going to _suck_.

Vanessa and Finral locked hands with enormous smiles decorating both their faces, and in unison they shouted, “Fashion glasses!!!”

“Wait, you’re not gunna make fun of me?” Magna asked with one eye open, cowering the way Grey taught him to. “Not even a little?”

Totally ignoring the diffidence her friend was displaying, the witch shrieked, “Oh my God! This is so exciting! Just imagine the possibilities!”

With a dead serious expression, Finral nodded along. “That’s it. We need to leave _this_ second.”

The two grabbed their much, _much_ stronger squad mate and effortfully yanked him through a portal into the unknown.

Only a fragment of a second after they’d wrassled him into a fissure in spacetime, the three Black Bulls fell into the capital’s main shopping district. Bustling crowds of well-to-do folks bumped them from all angles, sending the yankee into a bewildered stupor while he was dragged to God-knows-where.

Magna fiddled with the buttons of his jacket to ensure his corset was well hidden, since he couldn’t tell what or where anything or anyone was. The Clover capital was like a rave in a sardine can, packed with live jellyfish and a few too many overzealous pickpockets.

Long before he could get his wits about him, Magna found himself face to face with the storefront of an upscale eyeglass boutique. “Whuzza?” He said intelligently.

Grinning like thieves at their dazed friend, Vanessa and Finral patted him on the back; the pink-haired woman saying, “Go on in, I think you’ll like it~”

“Ugh, okay.”

Magna passed through the threshold at Vanessa’s behest, thinking this would be as dumb, painful, or embarrassing as everything else he’d been subjected to this last week. Instead, he wound up dumbfounded while he gawked at the enormous selection of frames and lenses.

As he took in the endless glittering shelves, the street punk couldn’t help but be awestruck. “_Whoa_… it’s like a candy store where anything you eat would make you die… because it’s made of glass…”

“Pretty nice, huh?” Finral asked with a smirk, “They just need to know your magnification, and we’ll be able to pick the glasses up in a couple hours.”

“Yeah, just tell us what needs correcting, and we’ll help you decide.”

“Well…” the street punk began, ”It’s hard to see things close up without ‘em, and they’re _really_ sensitive to light too. It’s awful.” His gray eyes squinting as he removed the shades from his face, Magna lamented his prescription, “It’s not manly at all to have eyes that don’t even work right…”

Gangsters shouldn’t be _half_ this cute, Finral and Vanessa thought as their fashion protege fluttered his lashes. 

“There’s nothing to be ashamed of, plenty of people need glasses!“

“And even if it were, we’re the Black Bulls! We’ve got worse!”

“Aw shucks, fellas… way to make a guy feel loved.”

Trying not to squeal at his cuteness, the pair helped Magna pick out the perfect new frames. The younger knight was on cloud nine when they gave him pair after pair to model, but something at the end of their purchase made a certain firecracker’s blood boil.

“And we’ll need them with the light dimming enchantment.” Finral said to the clerk.

“Mm-hmm. Big spenders I see.”

The space boy nodded, “And if you could make that out to Magna Swing.”

“Heyheyhey! Am I paying for this?” The man in question barked as he was handed the receipt. “Oh God, that’s a zero more than I was expecting… I don’t have _that_ kinda money!”

“What? You’re gonna have an ambassador’s salary soon— you can afford your own glasses and tailoring!”

“I’m gonna rip y— Wait, _tailoring_!?” Magna gasped, now paralyzed by the thought of his meager fortune going ‘bye-bye’.

“Of course.” Vanessa deadpanned, “That suit’ll look like a sack of tatoes if you don’t get it fitted, or re-padded… or fix the holes.”

“And lucky us, there’s an upscale outfitters just across the marketplace~”

As Magna was bodily dragged across the bazaar again, he stated to the incorrigible duo, “I’ve decided again that I hate you two.”

———————————————————

“Aw come on— plenty of guys are wearing them these days!” Finral whined through the fitting room wall, vexed by his gangster friend’s lack of adventurous spirit.

“N-n-no, there’s _no_ way I’m trying this crap on. And the tailor might be coming back soon…“ Magna replied in a tone that sounded a little too much like Grey. The garment his two fashionable friends handed him to try out looked a little too much like lingerie, and a blush crept across his cheeks as he regarded the mesh and lace boxer-briefs.

“Consider it a gift, and besides, it’s more tasteful than what you usually wear!” Finral was practically begging at this point.

“We don’t need to see it, but maybe if you meet somebody cute on your mission~”

“I’m not trying on some crappy, fancy pants, sexy underwear!” The fire mage shouted at the inveterate ‘thrill seekers’ before falling silent for a good, long while. 

Long enough for the young man helping the trio to return.

“How’s the fit on that outfit, Sir Magna? We’d love to make any further adjustments neede—“ the attendant cracked the door ajar to address any comments or complaints regarding the suit’s fit, but instead saw his client wearing… not much at all, and posing like an underwear model in the mirror.

Blood shot out the attendant’s nose at the sight, and he desperately tried to slam the fitting room’s door shut in the midst of apologizing, but only hit himself in the face with it as it rebounded off its hinges. Falling over backwards as the changing room fell open, the helper accidentally gave Magna’s whole group a view of the street punk trying to look seductive for his own reflection.

Everyone froze for a moment, wordlessly gawking while the fire mage pulled his breeches back on. Finral, Vanessa, and the store clerk stood three in a row, unsure of what to make of what they just saw while the man they’d caught with his pants down just smiled. 

Before any of them could get a single peep in, Magna switched from his personable grin to his shark-toothed rictus, and cracked his knuckles. “Listen up.” He demanded affably, “Any of you ever speak a word of this to anyone, and you’ll just have to kiss your kneecaps goodbye. Capiche?”

“C-cross our hearts.” Finral wheezed.

“Oh, and steward, the fit on the suit is perfect; I just need someone to lace me back up, and we’ll be on our way.”

——————————————-

The once-punkish knight was dressed to the nines in breeches, tailcoat, ascot, and finest spectacles, and was standing up perfectly postured with his chest puffed out proud; with that glorious orange lighting behind him, Magna Swing had been molded into a proper dignitary. 

In _looks_ at least: The scene was backlit by the flaming, razed remains of the path back to base when he’d found out he still had etiquette, dance, _and_ writing lessons to attend that evening.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As an aside, the chapters for this fic have a strict naming theme. Also, men’s corsets were a real fashion choice a couple centuries back!


	5. Bastard Wants to Hit Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Poor Magna. That is all.

Dragging his feet as he shuffled through the Black Bulls hideout, Magna gave himself a hard slap to the face. It barely registered through his exhaustion— if the boy’s math was correct, he hadn’t had more than twenty minutes shuteye in three days.

At this point, after having to do all his chores and be tutored _in his suit_, he was so tired that it physically hurt. But, at long last, it was time for bed… 

On the opposite side of the Goddamn castle.

A soft wheeze escaped Magna’s throat instead of the yawn he was going for. _Could I just ask Henry to make my room closer?_ He wondered through a haze of exhaustion. Well, it wasn’t like he had the energy to call out.

As he plodded through the base’s umbrae, the sight of a giant, familiar silhouette in the darkness perked up the half-dead ambassador-in-training, and Magna started walking—sorry, shuffling—towards it. 

Out of the shifting, ominous shadows came Yami’s bored visage. The first thing the dark mage said upon seeing his favorite sycophant limping closer was, “Wow. You like death warmed over.”

“Thanks boss.” The shorter knight said, grateful could finally shake down his Captain and too tired to understand the insult. “Hey, quick question bef-before my legs give out.”

“This better not be a math question or any stupid crap like that.”

“No, no, it’s just…” Magna’s brain short circuited for a half-second before he could recall what he was trying to say, “Why don’tcha know which nation I’m gonna be the ambassador for?”

“Oh, is that it?” His captain said with a prideful smirk growing across his face. ”Simple. I don’t know because I was taking a nap at that meeting.” 

As Magna’s face shifted into an expression of horror indistinguishable from the face one might make if they’d been told their dog was just run over, Yami quelled the worst of his concerns, “Don’t give me that look, you little punk. There’s another meeting in a couple days, I’ll tell ya then.”

Breathing a sigh of relief at his captain’s answer, the Tired One said, “Oh, well, thanks captain. Goodnight.”

“Hold up. You’re not getting away from it _that_ easy.” The Bastard One said while grabbing Magna by the collar.

Now bodily turned to face the larger mage, Magna asked, “Uhh… getting away from what, Sir?”

“Your regular training!” Yami shouted with a bigger smile than before, “I can’t have you getting all soft on us, Mr.Princess, so you get to spar with yours truly!”

“Thanks for the offer, boss, but I’m kinda exhausted from… everything today.“ _And the last few days, too_, the boy said inwardly. If Magna was being honest, he felt like a walking corpse.

“Hahaha! That wasn’t an offer, that was an order!“ Yami hollered as he tucked the half-conscious boy under his arm, “We’re surpassing your limits right now!”

“Wait!? Can’t I change back into my street clothes?” Magna begged his boss, waking up slightly to ask it.

“No way in _Hell_. We need to make certain you can fight under all those corsets and ascots. You’ve got like, five corsets on under that jacket, right?”

“Captain…” Magna said with a yawn he couldn’t quite suppress, “can’t we do this tomorrow…” he blinked despite himself, “I haven’t slept in thre—”

“—No excuses!“ Yami shouted from across a courtyard, staring down his junior down from some unfamiliar patch of stone, “Now come at me with everything you’ve got!“ 

Magna couldn’t remember himself or the boss moving, they were simply in a different wing of the base. Must’ve happened when he blinked.

“I said, _come on_, Froufrou! I’ll even give you the first hit.”

Trying to wring the tired out of his pitching arm, Magna decided he kinda would like to take out a little frustration. “Well, since you asked so nicely.” He said, pitching a maximum speed fireball straight at his captain’s eye.

Flames scattered across the tiles of their castle, and Yami’s immense form was silhouetted in the shadows of smoke; the tip of his katana having split the attack an inch from his face. Drawing his blade overhead, he shouted, “Not bad, Princess. Now try and dodge _this_! Dark cloaked slash!”

A crescent of pure blackness rent the space between the captain and Magna when he brought the sword down; the fire mage barely managed to bob under the dark wave as it carved the tips of his hair from existence. In the same ducking motion, the punk drew his bat and blocked another slash Yami had sent his way.

Barely getting his feet under himself, Magna saw that the captain wasn’t just sending a couple of attacks his way, but rather a entire _ocean_ of black arcs carving towards his opponent. He tried countering with his own ranged attacks, but found his fireballs absorbed completely into the darkness, one by one. Struggling to keep his eyes open, Magna resorted to batting away the endless salvo of cuts— watching in awe as each slash dissipated over his weapon. 

Nodding off for a split-second, he accidentally ducked one that came from his left… left? The young man shot back awake when he heard the sound of his captain’s boots ripping up cobblestone, and caught Yami’s sword through bleary eyes as the huge man leapt in to strike. 

The captain had cleared thirty feet in a fraction of a second, and was pleased to see his ambassador could keep up. With his _eyes_, at least. “Nice, but can you handle this?” 

Yami’s katana came down at Magna again, and it was all the exhausted boy could do to catch the slice with his bat. Even though the sheer impact almost wrenched the weapon from his hands—and his shoulder from its socket—he could tell the captain was taking it easy. 

Yami _never_ took it easy for long.__

_ _A wicked smirk decorated the larger knight’s face, and he swung the back edge of his katana at his sparring partner over and _over_ again, refusing to give him even a moment of respite. _ _

_ _They were weaker attacks individually, but each swing came so fast Magna couldn’t hope to keep pace, and the captain’s strikes kept crashing past his guard. He took some of the blunter hits head on, bruises already forming from the impacts. They were going to leave marks, but that didn’t stop his vision from fading out again— he was running on pure instinct, no longer able to keep both eyes open. _ _

_ _Turned out that instinct was just what he needed._ _

_ _The barrage finally stopped when Magna struck his captain dead in the chest, batting the enormous man away with every last ounce of his energy. Both combatants were surprised that he was able to get a solid hit in, but Yami, despite being knocked clear into the air, still prepared his next attack._ _

_ _It didn’t matter that Magna was covered in nascent bruises, that adrenaline coursed like a crashing river through his veins, or that he could hear Yami drawing back for another strike. Completely exhausted, Magna Swing blacked out on his feet._ _

_ _His sudden unconsciousness didn’t stop Yami’s attack; the dark mage still brought down his sword, and the lethal black wave arced straight at Magna. _ _

_ _Time slowed to a crawl for Yami as he launched his final attack, perceiving in slow motion something _bad_, just a moment too late. _ _

_ _ _He’s stopped moving. Oh, SonofaBitch._ _ _

_ _Faster than even his own spell could slice through the air, Yami dashed straight at the unconscious knight and protected him from the slash with his own back. Yami didn’t wince as a drop of blood leaked from his soon-to-be scar, but _did_ when Magna didn’t react in the slightest to taking part of that attack in his own shoulder, or being shaken— Magna was dripping a small amount of blood, but didn’t make a sound._ _

_ _He took a closer look at the younger knight’s face only to find him completely insensate; the bags under the spitfire’s eyes looked more like carvings in wood than not, and his breathing sounded irregular—ragged even—yet Magna was still standing up on his own two feet._ _

_ _Yami was simultaneously impressed and appalled . _Did I really push the boy this hard?__ _

_ _Without a word, he slung the exhausted man onto his uninjured shoulder, and walked back into the castle. He tiptoed past the busier and louder rooms to keep away from any unnecessary noise or flying debris, but took no care in preventing the boy’s head from hitting any walls or arches— what was he gonna do? Get _more_ unconscious?_ _

_ _Now, the Black Bull’s captain didn’t hit Magna on any geography, he just didn’t _take care_ not to as he carried the boy down the tortuous halls. The base could be an honest to God labyrinth sometimes, but after nearly a decade of living there, Yami never had troubles navigating._ _

_ _He gave a quiet “Yo.” to Henry as they passed each other near the men’s dorms, and pressed on towards the room he recognized as Magna’s. Thinking better of slamming the delinquent’s door off its hinges while carrying him, Yami tried the handle. _ _

_ _Taking hold of the metal apparatus on the door’s exterior with trepidation, he twisted it slightly, thus allowing the wooden barrier to be opened with a light push. _Huh, doorknob… this seems pretty useful.__ _

_ _After kicking a few books and a stuffed rat off the bed, he laid Magna down, taking care to keep his head still. He wrapped the cut on the boy’s shoulder before too much blood hit the sheets, and set Magna’s glasses on the nightstand._ _

_ _Checking behind himself to be _damn_ certain he was alone, Yami pulled the covers over the slumbering punk, and recited a quiet prayer in his first language._ _

_ _Not seeing any compelling reasons to leave the room just yet, the scruffy mage pulled out a cigarette and lit it on the nightstand lantern. He let himself bathe in the warm, crackling light as he regarded the young man’s quarters._ _

_ _“Is this the idiot’s schedule?” Yami asked himself rhetorically as he picked up a small calendar beside the lamp. Flipping through its few remaining scheduled days, he felt a rare pang of guilt. “Shit, he really _hasn’t_ slept in three days…“_ _

_ _Picking up a quill, the captain said to his unconscious protégé, “Don’t you dare think I’m getting soft on you…”_ _

_ _———————————————_ _

_ _In the morning, on his routine jog through the base, Asta took in the glorious sunlight of a new dawn. As he ran through the men’s quarters, he saw a strange object hanging on Magna’s door. Leaning in to take a closer look at what he found to be a handwritten sign, the magicless boy couldn’t help but grin._ _

_ _“Sleeping Beauty has no classes today. Do not disturb, or else.”_ _

_ _Asta continued his run with a cheerful laugh. It looked like somebody had gotten soft on Magna after all._ _


	6. Museum of Idiots

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The gang’s all together for one final lesson, and they’re as dense as ever. With only a day left before he leaves, Magna wonders how much of his mission he should let them in on.

————————

Magna felt his strength waning as he moved the quill to finish the letter, but he pressed onwards until the calligraphy was complete, and fell face-first onto the desk before him— drained of all his magic and stamina. Writing lessons under Henry were brutal, but not even his teachers assistant Gauche had calligraphy so clean.

What option was there other than to occasionally black out during class?

A five-thousand volt zap in the ribs jolted Magna back awake, and as his mouth opened with a shriek, a spoonful of food was placed inside. 

“Thanks, miss Charmy… screw you, Luck…” He said as he chewed, being propped up by the diminutive woman while his magic returned. This training was particularly tough for someone with as little mana as Magna, but with his gluttonous compatriot lending her aid, he could handle even Henry’s calligraphy class.

Smiling softly as he ate more of her food, the street punk-turned-dignitary leaned back to watch as Asta, Zora and Luck finished up with their writing. Magna let his grin grow a good bit wider when he remembered that practically his _entire_ squad was here at once— they rarely had the chance to hang out with Henry, and this was his final lesson, after all. 

Allowing etiquette to slip in his excitement, the fire mage pulled Charmy into a hug like she were a teddy bear. As Magna tried not to squeeze his senior too hard (or preferably, at all) the sickly teacher got up from his chair in much the same way a mummy rises from a sarcophagus. Walking to pick up the papers with his limbs creaking at every minute bend, Henry assessed the ambassador’s writing. 

“Exxeeeeleeeenttt wooorrk, Maaagnaaaaaaaa. Thhiiiiiisssss looooksssss juuuussst liiiikeee,” the blue haired boy violently cleared his throat, “the book. Why, I think you might—”

“—Don’t praise him too much, let me take a look…” Gauche butted in, taking the paper to examine it more critically. Both eyebrows raising, the “Oh. You’re right, this writing is _perfect_, just like—”

“Don’t say Marie!” The room shouted, in both unison and desperation.

“—Like the book. But _also_ like my darling little sister now that you’ve mentioned her.”

Everyone present felt sweat drops form on their foreheads, but appreciated his progress. As the room paused to laugh, the actual teacher grabbed the papers back, and prepared to make an announcement.

“Wiittthh thiiiissss, Maaaagnnnaaaaa, yoooouurrrrr—“ Henry gathered all his strength and shouted, “Your training is complete!!”

There was a moment of deafening silence, before the room began to cheer; every ounce of effort they’d put in had paid off, and with Henry’s words, it was official. After those endless classes on etiquette, dance, dress, and torture resistance(etiquette) Magna was _the_ Clover ambassador.

But one person wasn’t reveling, even while all his family hurrahed, he remained quiet.

“Thank you. Really, thank all of you.” Magna said, quietly, but dripping with emotion. Although the yankee was smiling, there were teardrops welling up as he spoke, “I know I gave everyone a hard time, like, a _really_ hard time, but I couldn’t have made it this far without you idiots giving me Hell.”

“Except you, Gordon. You and your creepy dictionary fort got me into this whole mess.”

Beneath anyone’s hearing, Gordon mumbled back, “I’m fairly certain that had nothing to do with your mission. I’ve only been trying to help…”

“Aw, screw it— come on in here too, big guy!” 

The poison mage found himself in a rare moment of bliss as he was yanked into the biggest group hug he’d seen all week. 

Refusing to look in the direction of her squad mates, Noelle cleared her throat and told Magna, “We’ve put you through so much lately, we figured we could give you a little something before your big day. A _very_ small surprise.”

“Huh?”

Asta pulled him down by the ascot, and gave him the good news, “We managed to keep your pudding away from Luck all day!”

“What!?” Magna gasped, a hand held daintily over his mouth, “You mean I get to have _two_ desserts!? You guys really are the best!”

The Black Bulls shared a hearty laugh as their new dignitary bolted out of the room with all the grace of a narcoleptic fawn, but one man’s chuckles seemed less… _goodnatured_ than the others.

“Zora…” Asta asked, ”why are you laughing so ominously?”

Scarcely managing to choke back his cackling, the redheaded prankster said, “I spiked that idiot’s pudding with Clover Undertaker peppers. “

“You mean the hottest known pepper!?” Finral yelped, gesticulating right up in Zora’s business, ”Are you _trying_ to kill him!?”

“We were supposed to let him relax!” Grey squeaked from behind Gauche’s shoulder.

Rolling his blue eyes, the boy on trial replied, “Well, _maybe_ somebody should’ve said we weren’t screwing with him today.”

“Dang it Zora, that should go without saying!”

“How would that go without saying?” The redhead asked as annoyance furrowed his brow, ”Everyone’s _always_ dunking on Magna!”

“Yeah, and we wanted to give him a break for once in our Goddamn whole lives!”

“And maybe I didn’t!”

In the midst of their arguing, an unholy scream rang out from the room where Magna had just fled. Everyone leapt after the sound at once, tripping over each other to see whether their friend was alright (or to laugh at him).

As the group rushed into the mess hall, the first thing they saw was a chair knocked to the ground where the street punk always sat. Creeping closer, they saw that on the floor Magna was visibly crying, tears running down his face with his dessert in hand. 

Already running damage control, Finral asked the figure twitching on the floor, “Oh my God, are you okay!? We heard a scream, and—“

“—This… this is… this is the best pudding I’ve ever had in my life!” The manly mage effused as he jumped to his feet, still crying. ”The spicy mixes with the sweet to create the perfect flavor~! It’s _so_ good my tongue’s going numb.”

Creeping closer than anyone else to the man, Zora gawked, “What? He should be _dying_ right now.”

“Oh? Are you the one who made this the best pudding in the world? Well, get over here! Have a taste for yourself!” Magna cheered, wrapping an arm around the cool-masked jerk. Sticking a spoonful of the pudding into his friend’s face with an evil smile, the punk said, “It’s _incredible_.”

Zora’s eyes went wide as the spiked dessert caressed his tastebuds, and with fear striking his very soul he… agreed. That was some damn fine pudding, so there must not’ve been anything to worry about. Wait, sorry, scratch that, the aftertaste was literally fire.

The masked prankster howled when the spice finally hit his tongue, and collapsed like a felled tree as he tried to spit the agony-flavor away.

Magna slapped his knee as he watched Zora wind up on the receiving end of one of his own pranks. ”Hahaha!! It _is_ hilarious when it ain’t happening to me!” 

After a few too many seconds of watching Zora writhe on the ground, Magna scratched the back of his head and conceded, “Actually that looks like it hurts, let me grab you some milk…”

The ash mage stopped his ceaseless screaming when the cow juice calmed his scorching tastebuds, and just laid there, unmoving while the squad shuffled uncomfortably around him. He sagged like a rag doll as Magna helped pull him from the floor, but once Zora was at least vaguely upright and only half-dead, he said, “Oh God, that was _horrible_…”

“I can’t wait to try it on someone else.” 

“Oh Zora, you are _incorrigible._” The scar-faced dignitary chided, a grin etching into his mouth as his friend got back on his bullshit. 

“Wait, ‘Incorrigible’?” Vanessa teased with an eyebrow raised, “The hell kinda word is that?”

Pointing a thumb straight into his puffed chest, Magna declared, “I’m proud to say I don’t know!”

Even Zora started laughing at this man’s idiocy, and the whole base quickly fell back into revelry. As all his friends gathered him into a giant, giggling group hug, the punk boy couldn’t help but join the celebration. 

Despite all the fun, there was still something grave tugging at the back of Magna’s mind. It was perhaps something too important to leave unsaid, but he’d loathe to tarnish those sunny smiles; to turn his family’s joy into fear. 

_I should tell them, but we’re having such a great time… _

_maybe tomorrow…_

—————————————————————-

An ethereal assortment of purples and oranges peppered the horizon. The very next morning, outside the castle, the entire squad had gathered to see Magna off on his mission.

“Well, you did it ya little punk.” Yami said, standing at the front of his knights, “You actually molded yourself into the manliest noble around. Which I _guess_ means you won’t pass as a noble for shit, but hey, we’re proud of ya’.”

“Thanks captain. I won’t let our hard work go to waste.” Said the prim and proper man as he saluted his squad. They’d already chartered him a ride, and Magna was never one to let hospitalities go unthanked, so he strutted towards his awaiting pumpkin carriage like some kind of prince.

Magna was excited beyond his dreams to be someone important, but all his anxieties from yesterday hit him like a punch in the chest as his teammates said their goodbyes in turn. Unlike all the knights bidding him farewell, the ambassador’s face was soberly calm.

“Gosh, I can’t wait to show you this technique I’ve been working on!”

“And a new dish I just need to figure out the spice rub for! You have to try it when you get back!”

“Tell me if you meet somebody cute out there!”

“You _better_ bring back some candy for my little sister! Uh… Please.”

“And then you can help me with our workouts! Those boulders aren’t gonna lift themselves!“

With clenched fists, Magna spoke above his friends. “Guys. I’m _leaving_.”

“Huh? What’re you talking about?” Luck rhetorically asked, “You’ll be right—”

“—I’ll be out of the country, on a dangerous mission, and I don’t know when I’m coming back. Guys, I don’t know _whether_ I’m coming back.” Magna’s gaze averted toward the ground, the typically headstrong man shivering with dread. “This monarch, she’s _dangerous_, and if I don’t get everything perfect, something awful could happen. I could plunge us into war, w-what if—”

His ranting stopped cold when Yami pulled him in for a hug, cupping his head with a hand. Not betraying his feelings with anything other than his words, the captain said, “Don’t you say crap like that. Just stay safe. We can’t have anything happen to our favorite delinquent.” 

As the hug got tighter, Magna looked up to see Luck holding him too. Reciprocating the embrace around them with warmth, the fiery man assured his family, “I‘ll be okay. I swear.” 

“That’s what I like to hear.” Yami said, graduating his hand from the man’s head to his shoulder, “And listen, if you wind up dying out there, I’ll kill you myself.”

The tone of his captain’s ‘threat’ washed the fears from Magna’s mind, leaving behind only his excitement for the adventures ahead, at least for now. The ambassador stood to walk, but before he was allowed move, he felt a pair of lips plant a kiss on his cheek— courtesy of the blond mage holding his arm. 

“Wuhhzza-Huh!?” The firecracker garbled, his face lighting up like an overripe tato.

“For luck,” Luck explained, ”only _I’m_ allowed to kill you. So you can’t die until you get back!”

“Heh, thanks.” Magna said, skin still buzzing where the kiss had grazed him, “Way to make me feel like a real prince.”

Climbing into the carriage after letting his closest friend go, he refused to let the gravity of his situation sink in again, instead focusing on the love that surrounded him. Just as the wheels began to carry him away, a manically grinning Magna stuck himself out the window and screamed to his family, “Goodbye everybody! I’ll bring back all kinds of souvenirs! I promise! And I’ll make peace! Hell— I’ll kick peace’s _ass_ if I have to!”

As they watched his cart travel down the twisting roads until it escaped sight, a couple knights had an important question lingering in their minds. Putting voice to the query, Noelle asked, “I suppose we didn’t get the chance to ask in all the chaos, but… where is he going?”

Yami turned away from the rising sun to face his squad, a neutral expression making his features unreadable. Taking a drag from the cigarette hanging between his teeth, he answered.

“The Witch’s Forest.”


	7. Sometimes A Lonely Way

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s plot time.

A chartered carriage ride wasn’t nearly as exciting as a trip by broomstick, but Magna found himself breathing comfortably in rhythm with the rocking of the wooden wheels over dirt paths. Adjusting the hem of his tailcoat, the man leaned back to just… relax. 

Actually calming down was troublesome, however, for despite the verdant scenery passing by so peaceably, Magna’s heart was thumping like a dynamo with anxiety over his mission. Even if his training were both thorough and _Hellish_, who could say whether the Witch Queen would buy his act? And if she did, who’s to say she wouldn’t just ignore him and attack the kingdom regardless?__

_ _It also hadn’t hit the young mage until he stepped into the carriage that he’d have to do it all _alone_. His entire family left behind, with no clue whether he’d get to see them again. He’d promised everyone a safe return, but that wasn’t a promise he knew he could keep— his _life_ was at the mercy of the world’s most powerful woman, and Magna had never heard a story about the queen that painted her in a positive light. Banishments, beheadings, and torture for infractions that other monarchs would call minor were all things he’d heard. The woman kept Vanessa, her _own daughter_ in a freaking cage, and he was just some chump sent to ‘make peace’. _ _

_ __How the Hell am I going to survive this?_ Magna wondered in a cold sweat, barely managing to keep himself quiet. The cart hit a huge bump in the path, and suddenly the boy was fighting for air like he’d just been punched in the chest. Nothing besides his mounting fears would occupy his mind as he tried to calm himself, so he cracked open the luggage on the seat beside him— desperate to get his thoughts elsewhere._ _

_ _Magna’s heart stopped when he saw what lay at the very top of his belongings. It was a simple book, by the name of Akiko, and the same book he’d been trying to finish for the last two weeks. When he picked the tome up, a scrap of paper fell from between its pages; inspecting the sheet on his lap, Magna’s mouth soon found itself in the shape of a smile._ _

_ __A replacement for the book I destroyed! Buy me a whole bunch of knives please!_ — Luck Voltia_ _

_ _When he dug through the rest of his belongings, the manly man found that, in addition to Luck’s thoughtful present, there was an assortment of other gifts and cards inside the suitcase from his other teammates. _ _

_ _Magna let out a goodnatured groan when he realized most of the cards just asked for souvenirs, and that most of the gifts were just toothbrushes, but a second specific present sent a blush across his features when he uncovered it._ _

_ _A titillating pair of boxers, fabricated from translucent mesh and lace hung like contraband between his hands. The attached note read: _ _

_ __We never told a soul, but don’t pretend you didn’t want these~  
P.S. Buy us perfumes please._— Finral & Vanessa._ _

_ _He stowed them in the bottom of his luggage faster than his own eyes could track, and slammed the lid shut so hard there was a quiet ‘crack’. When his flush finally abated, all he could do was laugh._ _

_ _It was a lonely journey ahead, but Magna knew that even if the Black Bulls weren’t here, his family was always with him. Besides, it was out of his character to worry and angst— a manly moron like himself should deal with emotions as they come to him. He’ll worry about the Queen when he’s at the guillotine. _ _

_ _With the stupidest grin on his face, the ambassador kicked back, and relaxed with a good book for the rest of his trip._ _

_ _———————————————_ _

_ _A gargantuan pair of doors stretched into the forest canopy, breaking through even clouds as they towered above the surrounding woodlands. The carriage came to a lurching stop and all four of the pumpkin’s wheels cut into the earth, as if they _knew_ to fear the land that lay beyond their destination. _ _

_ _The Witch’s Forest._ _

_ _Awaiting the dignitary beside the foreboding wooden gates was a short woman dressed in severe grays and blacks, with a pointed hat resting upon blonde locks. She carried herself with grim poise, and Magna could tell this witch was dead serious even from his seat, as she didn’t move a muscle except to acknowledge the carriage’s arrival. _ _

_ _Adjusting his ascot and collar, the bespectacled man stepped down to the ground. Clearing his throat out of anyone’s earshot, he grabbed his luggage, gave the driver a generous tip, and realized something _very_ important as he walked towards the waiting witch: _Wait, Crap crap crap. If I use my real name they could trace me back to my folks in Rayaka! You come up with a pseudonym this instant Magna!_ _ _

_ _Despite the internal screaming, the ambassador’s face didn’t betray his thoughts in the slightest. With a slight bow, and an expression of serene composure, he introduced himself. “Greetings, my name is Magnus Wing. I’m the ambassador I trust you’ve been expecting.”_ _

_ _The blonde woman curtsied shallowly, seeming as though the gesture of formality was made for her. “Hello, Mister Wing, I am her majesty’s chamberlain: Deandra Aviary. It’s good to see you in fair health. I’ll be taking your effects and ferrying you to her majesty momentarily, but first…” _ _

_ _The witch broke character, conspiratorially smirking now, ”Do you want to hear a joke?”_ _

_ _“What?” He was taken aback, adjusting his glasses while he replied, “Er, not really.”_ _

_ _“Excellent!” The smaller woman said, clearly not listening as she grabbed the lone suitcase from Magna’s hands. “Okay, so this one’s hilarious: What do get when you play tug of war with a pig?”_ _

_ _The ambassador gave her a look of perfect confusion, silently questioning life itself until Deandra said, “Pulled pork!” Which was just awful._ _

_ _Magna waited exactly three seconds before telling her that, “I will never forgive you for saying that.” He hid his smile behind an ungloved hand._ _

_ _“Oh, I’m sorry for being inappropriate. Now please, follow me.” The witch said, returning to her more serious disposition as she walked toward the gates with his luggage stowed safely under her arm; hoping she hadn’t just ruined her first impression. _ _

_ _She traced a rune on a smaller portion of the massive, imposing doors, and it created an aperture just large enough for the woman to pass through. As the larger mage contorted himself to squeeze in after her, she blushed and held her palm out to block his path, saying, “Sorry Magnus! It’s usually just me passing through! Let me adjust this for you…”_ _

_ _Deandra scrambled her free hand across the opening while muttering some quiet incantation, looking like she’d accidentally stepped on a puppy’s tail; to her, this was strike two. The hole grew wide enough around them for Magna to stand up straight again, and he followed the flustered lady onward, awed into silence by her strange magic._ _

_ _Resting inside a metal rack, an elongated broomstick awaited them at the beginning of witch territory, and the ambassador’s guide rushed ahead to grab it. She stowed his belongings onto a small hook on the underside, and levitated her ride before signaling that he hop onto the spot behind her. “Please, ambassador.” Magna sat sidesaddle on the broomstick at her invitation, riding behind Deandra as she fell into uncomfortable silence. The pair flew low into the deeper forest, closer to the ground than anyone tended to. _ _

_ _Left with nothing to do while the odd woman in front of him played silent chaperone, Magna just kept his eyes on the swirling mists that seemed to only thicken as they ventured on._ _

_ _In the lower neighborhood of witch country, every shutter was sealed shut, betraying no hints as to whether people lived inside the endless houses that lined the forest floor. A zephyr lacking any hint of life breezed across the street; it was like they were moving through a graveyard. _ _

_ _Deandra could feel her passenger white-knuckling the broom handle, and felt a twinge of sympathy for the clearly sheltered man as the pair rode past this deserted, deathly neighborhood. All things considered, he must’ve already hated her. Thinking she should lighten the atmosphere, the blonde mage spoke to her passenger, “Listen, Magnus, it’s not just that you’re a man, but most of the women living here work elsewhere in the forest.” She rode the broom above the desolate borough, breaking through the treetops to take the envoy away from such a frightening vista._ _

_ _When she could still feel the young man behind her trembling, Deandra was at the end of her rope. “I could maybe take us higher…”_ _

_ _“Am I seriously gonna sleep in a tree?! That’s totally manl— erm, it’s something I’ve always wanted to try.” Magna shouted before quickly reeling his enthusiasm in— a nobleman shan’t let his emotions overrun his composure, after all. No matter _how_ gorgeous misty city’s built into coniferous were._ _

_ _Leaning a little closer to his flabbergasted chaperone, he said, “Gosh. Awful jokes, beautiful scenery— you are _good_ at your job.” _ _

_ _With a tiny smirk instead of a punk-faced beam belying his overwhelming excitement to see this beautiful forest he’d only heard fables about, Magna flew closer to the Queen’s castle. Ahead of him, Deandra was relieved she hadn’t made a terrible first impression. _ _

_ _Casting her gaze down to the forest floor, she bit back all the warnings she wanted to give this poor man. _ _

_ _It was too late for that anyway._ _

_ _——————————————_ _

_ _Sitting on her throne, the Queen of the forest awaited the Clover ambassador; the primary thing on her mind being what sort of spy he’d be. It wasn’t like she was a fool, the kingdom wouldn’t send a peace broker without ulterior motive, and _especially_ not with her ‘particular instructions’ regarding the envoy’s mission._ _

_ _It likely wasn’t excitement she was feeling about his imminent arrival, the despotic woman was more so pondering _which_ snobby aristocrat would try and double-talk his way into the Forest’s political situation. A malevolent grin crept along her face as she envisioned some witless, simpleminded fool of an ambassador— a man all too easy to bend to her whim._ _

_ _No matter what, the Witch Queen was going to have _fun_._ _

_ _———————————————_ _

_ _In a stuffy antechamber before the throne room, two young mages gathered themselves for what could be the most important meeting of Magna’s entire life. They’d gone through a few select corridors to give the man time to prepare for this moment; the woman making dead certain his clothing was perfectly tidy. _ _

_ _As Deandra prepared to lead him past the threshold and into the Queen’s throne room, Magna felt his heart catch in his throat. The very real danger of the woman on the other side of this curtain was sinking in, and the young mage didn’t need to see her to feel her presence— her overwhelming magic power flooded into the antechamber like a smog, and it was just as able to stutter his breathing. _ _

_ _ _This is the most powerful woman in the world. If I screw up even the slightest thing, I could wind up dead._ _ _

_ _Magna swallowed hard, and tried not to clutch at his heart while Deandra stepped out before the throne. _ _

_ _“Your Majesty, Her divine grace. The Clover Kingdom ambassador has arrived.” Deandra’s voice rang out like a singing bird, and the Witch Queen cast her gaze towards the curtains with vested interest. _ _

_ _The man following her chamberlain into the cavernous room was young—like he’d only had his grimoire for a few years—bright-eyed, and handsome. He also had a large scar on his face. Effectively, the man walking into the throne room was as unlike her expectations as possible. This was by far an interesting enough revelation for the Queen to stand from her throne, eyeing the charming nobleman before her with a glare that could cut diamonds._ _

_ _Magna was almost knocked over by the sheer force of her presence as the Queen wordlessly regarded him. Against all odds, the lone man kept his composure enough to make introductions. “Your Majesty, I am Sir Magnus Wing, the Clover Kingdom’s ambassador.”_ _

_ _The Witch Queen stalked down the stairs to face the man directly, and when in arms reach, gripped his shoulder in her talons. Shifting her hand up to the nape of this young dignitary, her claw-like nails easily drew a bead of Magnus’ blood. Though her expression didn’t betray her, the Queen was genuinely taken aback by the noble’s lack of reaction; his skin was just pierced, but he barely twitched his face, as if the bleeding didn’t bother him. _ _

_ __Is the Clover Kingdom’s envoy this immunized to torture?_ She wondered in amazement. _He’ll be fun.__ _

_ _Licking the sanguine droplet off her nail, the Witch Queen finally spake, “It’s lovely to meet you, Magnus Wing. I’d never have imagined an envoy like you coming to officiate.”_ _

_ _“The pleasure is all mine, your Majesty.” The man replied, trying desperately not to give away the thumping of his heart. He was too shaken to have noticed the bleeding on his own neck._ _

_ _“There’s scarcely a need to call me ‘Majesty’— my last name, Sangue, will do fine.” The pink haired lady said, tiring of official speech. “Now, Sir Magnus, would you accompany me to the dining hall? I do intend to meet my new consort in earnest.”_ _

_ _He took her hand gingerly, the exact way the street punk had been drilled. “Miss Sangue, it would be my pleasure.” As they walked down regal halls towards their fine culinary destination, Magna turned to face the woman he was entertaining and said, “Just one question before dinner. Could you please elucidate to me what a ‘consort’ is?”_ _

_ _The Witch Queen could never’ve prepared for such a question, and after metaphorically picking her jaw off her clavicle, replied, “_During_ dinner. I’ll tell you everything over roast pheasant.”_ _

_ _——————————_ _

_ _Fine merlot wine decorated the tablecloth before Magna, the result of a world class spit-take he’d brought into existence upon discovering what a ‘consort’ was._ _

_ _The Witch Queen cupped his chin in a taloned hand from across the opulent tableware, smirking derisively as she said, “Aww, weren’t you told? The ambassador was to be my groom.” The queen took another sip from her goblet and amended, “Or at least my hostage. Perhaps just a _plaything_.”_ _

_ _Recoiling from her clawed hand as politely as he could manage, the younger man cleared his throat. “Ahem. I ain’t no toy, and I never heard anything about becoming your hubby.”_ _

_ _Sangue gripped his shoulder in her talons as she stalked around the table, chalice in hand. Slowly, in just as deliberate a fashion as one could imagine, she poured her red wine over Magna’s suit; drenching him in the crimson liquid while a malevolent smile decorated her lips._ _

_ _“So it seems you’ve chosen to become my hostage.”_ _

_ _At her words, a hand leapt out of the wine staining Magna’s coat and clamped itself over his mouth; digging its fingers into his skin with the force of a vise. Muffled screams echoed off the dining hall’s cavernous ceiling, reaching only ears that had no concern for the ambassador. _ _

_ _Magna fought at the fingers crushing his face, but couldn’t get any purchase as the hand suffocated him. His lungs burned like Hell, his vision faded in splotches, and the last thing he saw before hitting the pavement was the Queen scowling down at him._ _

_ _“Couldn’t you have been a little gentler, General?“ Sangue asked to the giant figure lurking in the shadows of the dining hall. When all the response she got was a curt grunt, the Queen stepped on Magna’s unconscious form and said, ”Either way, throw this one in his cage.”_ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gosh, this is easily the longest single chapter I’ve written. I can only hope Magna gets out of this alive.


	8. Careful What You Pack

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A little bonus chapter for old time’s sake!

In a nondescript room, with animal skulls and bubbling vials decorating every inch of the walls, Deandra was acting as assistant to a pair of scientist sisters: the older, shorter Phoebe and the younger, taller Hilda— Both of whom were a good deal taller than Dee.

As the blonde chamberlain waited, the two other witches had made every conceivable preparation for their own safety as they approached Magna’s luggage. The women spent close to an hour warding themselves against myriad ancient and maleficent hexes before daring to touch the ordinary travel case.

A quiet ‘crack’ undid the hinges, and the lid opened like a treasure chest for the trio to peruse. They dug around the contents hoping to uncover something incriminating about the ambassador, and were bewildered to say the least.

“A children’s book…?” Hilda asked to herself as she removed the little ‘Akiko’ tome resting upon the spare shirts.

“Several cards requesting souvenirs…” Deandra contributed, making them into a neat pile nearby.

“Seventeen toothbrushes!?” Phoebe shouted, dumbfounded by the sight. “This envoy seems more like a weirdo than a spy. Ugh, what other trash did this guy bring…”

It wasn’t long before they found an item of interest, but it sure as Hell wasn’t ‘interesting’ in the way the trio wanted.

“What is this?” The tallest witch asked as she procured a small bundle of fabric from the very bottom of the suitcase. As the garment unfolded in her hands to reveal itself as a pair of (sexy) men’s underwear, Hilda chucked it away like a hand grenade, shrieking, “Eeek!! Cooties!!”

The lacy boxers soared through the air before landing on the face of someone entering the room. Someone who had the following to say as she removed the underwear from her visage: 

“Hilda, You are a twenty five year old woman— _act like it_.”

The Hilda in question whipped her head to the speaker at the threshold, and upon seeing that the one addressing her was the Witch Queen, foamed from the mouth in fear; promptly thereafter blacking out. 

Sangue kicked the insensate woman out of her path before dropping the boxers back in the ambassador’s suitcase. Looming over the conscious pair of girls like the shadow of death itself, her Majesty made an observation of her own, “It would be so untoward of my science team to go rifling through a boy’s undergarments just to amuse themselves. Please tell me you’ve found _something_ of note.”

“We in fact _have_, your Majesty! We, uh…” Phoebe fibbed in a tizzy, accidentally reaching inside a hidden pocket sewn into luggage’s interior. The middlest witch’s brain nearly broke as she extricated something metal from the depths of the leather, and she presented it to the Queen posthaste, “We uncovered a magic device! A…” her jaw dropped open upon even the most cursory inspection of the item in her hand, “An _extremely_ powerful magic communication device!”

“Adequate work, Phoebe.” Sangue smiled wryly, eyeing her team like a shark, “Now, could you two give me your overall assessment of our dear hostage?”

Clearing the nerves out of her throat, Deandra began the report, “There is very little among his effects. He brought more toothbrushes than clothes, and only packed the suit he’s wearing.” 

Phoebe adjusted where her glasses would be if she wore any, and continued for the shorter assistant, “On the other hand, he hasn’t used the device yet. This might be to make it harder to link to his person, but that’s just my hypothesis. It seems like the Clover ambassador might be a spy after all.”

“Now that is interesting…” Sangue mused with a finger to her chin. Turning to leave the small room, the Queen reminded them, “Do be certain to bring Magnus’ luggage to his cell. Maybe you can even unpack for the boy— he’s going to be in our auspices for a _long_ time.”

Swallowing the guilt as she clocked the case shut, Deandra asked the pink-haired monarch at the door, “About Magnus… what are you planning to do to him?”

“Oh, just the usual. In the morning, I’ll interrogate him, and tell him he’s never allowed to leave.”


	9. Madam, I Challenge You To A Duel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Now for the real next chapter!

The air was filled with the frosty mists that blessed the Witch’s Forest at every daybreak. It had been eight hours since the ambassador was suffocated at dinner, and his captors were waiting to interrogate him with bated breath.

Magna Swing awoke in a cage, slowly but surely stirring as morning light trickled like honey between cold metal bars. Checking around with bleary eyes, the man could see his cell wasn’t as cramped or inhospitable as one would expect from a prison; he could feel a plush bed beneath him, and to his side stood a nightstand. At least, it was probably a nightstand, he was too close to tell.

Picking his glasses up so he could stop squinting, Magna saw an entire collection of opulent furniture decorating the cage’s interior, and that any evidence of the wine spilled on his jacket had vanished— as if the drink had simply never touched his suit. But more surprising to the unlucky bastard than the cushy furnishings that surrounded him was his lack of a throbbing headache. Even back home he usually got more roughed up before (or after) blacking out for the night. Whoever spirited him to this cage must’ve actually bothered _not_ banging his head on the walls.

Not seeing a living soul in the vicinity, the man stepped off of his bed with a massive yawn. Regardless of the circumstances around his forced slumber, _God_ did he need that rest. But when Magna stretched to get the last morsel of sleep out of his bones, a dark presence seeped into the room; one that made the diplomat’s hairs stand on end. 

It was almost like an apparition crossing the threshold, but now that his eyes had finished adjusting, Magna could recognize the silhouette of a woman in the far corner of the tower. An _enormous_ woman. She approached in the same way a phantom draws nearer, stalking towards the caged man with malice dripping off her person and forming metaphoric puddles on the red carpet stretched across the floor. 

Looking up at the giant lady, he saw that she hardly dressed like the other witches: With an open trench coat, wallet chain and ankle length skirt, she took up more space than any regular person could. Though she _easily_ exceeded six feet in height, seeing that she was in fact a human quelled the spitfire’s nerves in an instant. 

Okay, so it was more like her not being the Queen calmed him down.

“Who in the Hel- er, _heck_ are you?” Magna demanded as the newcomer pulled up a chair next to his cell.

Adjusting the hem of her flattened witch hat to reveal a strand of black hair, the giant woman replied, “Commander Boo. General of the Queen’s guard.” seemingly unbothered by his accusatory tone aside from her scowl.

“Oh. Well, it’s a pleasure to meetcha, Boo.” He replied precisely as he was trained to, smiling and extending a hand to the cage wall. ”Wait! You’re just gonna answer me!?”

“It’s a basic question. Besides, Magnus, we already know quite a bit about you. You’re a member of the magic knights… or more specifically, the Black Bulls.” She leaned forward in her seat to continue her assessment closer to the hostage, expression neutral, ”And judging by the magic power I can sense from you, I’d guess at the lowest possible rank.”

A twitch of his face gave away more than Magna wanted, but his mouth stayed resolutely shut despite the intense woman staring him down. That intel was too specific for guessing.

“Yeah, there’s no need for you to reply yet; I’ll just take that silence for a yes. The Queen’s coming for your interrogation, and she _will_ make you talk.”

Magna’s knuckles blanched as he gripped the bars separating him from the outside world, and his gesture didn’t go unnoticed by the general. Anything would be preferable to another audience with that monarch.

“Scared, huh?” Boo asked, leaning in towards his scowling face; recognizing the grave fear behind his expression, she had a deal to propose, “Tell you what, Magnus. If you can beat me in a fight, I’ll just let you go.” 

Her scowl abated in an instant, a dark grin taking its place. “The Queen doesn’t interrogate you, and you’re home free. Just know that a weakling like you could _never_ win.”

Knocking the concept of freedom around in his head for a few seconds, the yankee conceded that he really didn’t have a choice. He peeled his fingers off the cage wall and said, “I’ll take you up on that offer. Anything to get out of here.” 

Standing his ground in the most gentlemanly way possible, Magna extended a hand to the general, “Madam, I challenge you to a duel.”

A simple nod was the general’s tacit acceptance to their fight, and not even her crooked smile could break the man’s nerve. Bolting upright from her seat, Boo tore her jacket sleeves off to reveal that in addition to being massive, she was freaking _jacked_. Her biceps, triceps and deltoids looked like they were knit from cable, and she stood an easy eight inches taller than Magna. 

The lady took a few steps back, cracked her neck, then her knuckles, and fell silent. The two irascible mages stood off, staring the other down as they waited for the ‘fun’ to begin. Magna watched her hands, and saw that she wouldn’t be budging an inch until he’d made his first move.

_Heh. How considerate._

Not bothering to wait until her concentration broke, the street punk crashed the cage open in one giant hit; curling the bars outward while he charged at Boo, his fist drawn back like a cocked gun. The giant witch assumed a stance to catch Magnus’ punch, but he feinted at the point of impact, using the opportunity to slide past her. On his skid across the glossy marble, he pitched a half-dozen fireballs at Boo; smirking that he’d gotten the drop on someone with the title of General.

If only it had been so easy. 

Not even needing to face the real attack, the massive witch threw a barrier behind herself to catch every one of her opponent’s pitches. She said, “Ghost magic: Ectoplasmic sheet.” as each fireball dissolved into embers, and then nothing at all. 

Magna’s face fell upon recognizing that she hadn’t even put effort into the spell, but was impressed enough to find a new smile on his face, “One of those fancy-pants defensive spells, huh? I’ve got just the trick for that.”

Turning casually around to stare down her much smaller foe, Boo put up her barrier again, telling him, “Trust me when I say those weak-ass fireballs don’t stand a chance of breaking through.”

“Well you ain’t seen nothin’ yet!” Magna shouted as he pitched a gout of flames right at his opponent’s face, nearly overbalancing himself with the weight of the throw. 

Boo rolled her eyes as the ambassador tried the same exact technique again, and she practically yawned from behind her shield as the fireball arced towards her; dead-certain her opponent was as good as defeated. Then, her eyes went wide. 

_Where did his attack go?_ Boo searched the air frantically in the fraction of a second she had before impact, but found nothing— not even sensing the magic of his attack. She was dumbfounded.

Popping back into existence behind her barrier, the fireball crashed straight into her face, and the explosive shot sent the muscular witch _flying_. Magna watched in awe of himself as she arced across the tower, half-limp and leaving cracks in her wake.

“Hmmph, to think a _junior_ magic knight could knock me down.” Wiping the blood from her nose, Boo stood back up; an almost imperceptible smirk on her lips. “I haven’t had a real fight in weeks. I can’t believe you’re forcing me to bring out my ultimate offensive spell.”

“Ultimate? Wait— you’re skipping straight to ‘ultimate’!?” Magna panicked, as the woman dusted herself off from his own ‘ultimate’ attack.

Flicking a spot of blood from her nose to the ground, Boo pointed flamboyantly at her prisoner and shouted, “Ghost Summoning Magic:「Wuthering Heights」!!”

Before the diplomat’s eyes, a second, feminine figure appeared beside Boo; a muscular phantom striking the same dramatic pose as her summoner. With a single finger jabbed directly at Magna, the witch stated, “There’s no way for you to beat me anymore. A little punk like you doesn’t stand a chance!”

“I can take you up on that. It’s just a two-on-one, right? I’m always fightin’ the odds!” Magna said as a fiery bat appeared between his mitts, crackling like a yule log and ready to smack someone’s shit. He primed himself into a batters stance, raising the weapon up beside his head to strike when a giant fist cracked across his jaw— making the ambassador kiss the marble as his head spun.

_What the hell just happened?_

Though platinum stars were the only thing he could focus on from his position on the floor, all six feet, two hundred pounds of the general were sprinting straight at where Magna fell, moving like a freight train at the reeling man while he gathered his legs beneath himself. 

Magna dove out of Boo’s path before she could reach him, but she reacted quickly to his dash, ripping part of the room’s carpet up and throwing it into his path. 

“Don’t you realize running is pointless? You should give up now, before I hurt you too bad.“

A soft “no” left Magna’s mouth as he continued on his escape route through the rug, not even bothering to use his magic to run away. The ambassador thought he was home free until the ghostly figure of「Wuthering Heights」popped out of the red carpet and punched him like a sledgehammer to the stomach. 

The force of the attack was so immense he doubled over the phantom’s fist, and could hear the bones of his corset crack as he was sent flying back at the giant witch. 

_Ouch. Is this what happened last time too? Ouch_

On the room’s far side, Boo was already primed to break the ambassador in half, drawing her arm back like a pissed-off street brawler as he careened towards her fist. But at the last moment before impact, Magna—without thinking—threw another fireball to hurl himself into the ground rather than Boo’s backbreaking haymaker. 

Rolling back to his feet with a loud, painful skid, Magna clutched at the bruise already forming on his midsection, but followed the trajectory of his warden’s fist as it arced through empty space. Boo was fully aware she’d just missed the easiest attack possible, so the general crashed her hand into the back wall in frustration; leaving a _deep_ indentation of her knuckles behind, with cracks spreading out from the epicenter like a spiderweb.

She shook her head while extricating her fist from the stone, and brought the bizarre ghost back to her side. “Good grief. I really _can’t_ go easy on you, can I?”

Panting, Magna said, “Nottachnce,bbbs.” though he meant, ‘Not a chance, Babes.’

“You’re a fun one.” As the stone tower crumbled behind Boo, she started throwing the detritus at the ambassador like jagged bullets. “Let’s see you get out of this.”

Magna ducked the first several attacks before he saw them coming, but Boo was pitching them fast enough that bruises were beaten into him by the sheer number of rocks thrown the his way. 

Just like his fight with Yami, although he was starting to sense attacks before they happened, he wasn’t fast enough to stop them. 

To save his poor body from further injury, Magna threw a salvo of fireballs back at her attack to match— risking another of that bizarre ghost’s punches to save his own skin. While his spell did eradicate Boo’s horizontal rockslide, the only thing Magna could see in the dissipating smoke was another fist careening straight at him; it struck the fire mage in the chest with so much force he could almost hear his ribs give out.

The young man collapsed back and wheezed, tears welling up behind his glasses as his lungs refused to draw anything in. Though he could barely breathe, and his eyes were bleary, Magna scrutinized the tower wall behind his warden and had a _terrible_ idea.

He rose back to his boots, and started hobbling closer to Boo.

“Oh? You’re approaching me?” She asked as the man took another heavy step, ”Instead of running away, you’re coming straight here?”

“Of course. I can’t run away from you without getting closer.”

“What? That doesn’t make any sense. Either way, any attack you use, 「Wuthering Heights」 can counter effortlessly.”

_That’s what I’m counting on!_ Magna thought as he threw a fireball behind himself, closing both his eyes to focus completely on predicting Boo’s next move. Like the last two times, the phantom emerged from the fire to destroy him; unlike the last two times, the young mage punched back. Successfully catching the ghost’s fist on his knuckles, Magna winced, but then「Wuthering Heights」second hand came crashing into the boy’s corset, and he was launched away with a ‘crack’. 

All according to plan.

Breaking into a dead sprint the instant he touched the ground, the yankee escaped the chamber through Boo’s broken wall, rushing straight past the ghost witch and fleeing the castle tower by using her own attack as a very, _very_ painful boost. 

The general stood aghast as the prisoner slipped past, appalled that the most important diplomat in the nation could escape her watch. She gazed out at the sunlight pouring into the room, and punched the wall again. _Just as I suspected… that boy is a genius. He’s way smarter than he looks._

Not realizing the irony of her thoughts, Boo leapt through the crumbled ruins after the escaped hostage.

————————————

Despite the pained clutching at his injuries, Magna was grateful for even a second’s respite from that struggle as he sank into the impenetrable fog of the forest below. It was a hazard that left him half-blind, but that was preferable to being in Boo’s sightline even when it meant getting slapped by a dozen errant branches.

The young man hit the unseen ground with a soft crunch, but took off in a dead run without making so much as a peep from the pain; he’d already heard Boo in pursuit too close behind him, so he opted for the classic ‘swearing under one’s breath’ instead of his favored ‘irate screaming’ in reaction to that new potential injury.

Sprinting past a collection of houses, Magna was amazed to see that he hadn’t actually reached the forest floor, and was making his retreat across branches as wide as cobblestone roads. He almost got caught up enough in the breathtaking sights to forget the woman chasing him, but the thunderous stomping behind him was a convenient reminder that someone wanted him dead.

When a rock embedded itself into the wood beside his head, Magna dove deeper down into the village below, hoping he could slip past the sundry tree limbs easier than his massive pursuer. 

Though he was glad to see her decelerate, it was only by like, three percent.

They tore through the lower forest town, crashing themselves through branches and leaves, and bowling over witches who had no idea what was going on. When the pair reached a clearing in the town, the dearth of obstacles let Boo gain a _lot_ ground on her target; carving closer to him faster than anyone that big should be capable of. 

He let out a decidedly unmanly shriek, and boosted ahead of her with his fire boot spell—leaving a scorched trail behind himself, as Boo fell into the distance. 

“Hahaha! Try and catch me _now_, ya craz— Wait! Did I just start a fire?” Magna shouted as he skidded to a stop; turning on a dime, he saw a path of wreckage through the village. Sheepishly beginning to stamp out the flames he lit, he chanced a look up, and saw Boo doing the same thing. 

She stopped quelling the fire when their eyes met and blushed, then composed herself to scream, “Stop running you bastard! I challenged you to a fight, not a race!”

“Only if you stop using that weird ghost, and fight me like a _real_ man!” Magna demanded as he retraced his path to the general.

“No. And I’m a woman anyway.” She said, stepping up close enough to see his irises, “I’ll use whatever spells I damn well please.”

“Then don’t blame me for fightin’ dirty!” Magna warned, before he spat blood in Boo’s eyes and kicked her in the abs. 

She grunted as she was knocked backwards, but stood her ground when the ambassador’s fist struck across her jaw; rolling with the punch despite her blindness, the giant woman caught Magna’s arm in the followthrough and slammed him overhead with her own strength. Boo laid him flat onto the hard-packed dirt of the village, as「Wuthering Heights」emerged from the blood on her eyes to destroy him.

Fighting back airlessly while a flurry of punches made craters in the earth beside his head, Magna slammed his boot into the phantom somewhere he’d prefer not to mention— sending both it, and its summoner to the ground in an instant.

“Heh… I’ve figured out your spell’s secret.” Magna huffed as he scraped himself off the bloodied dirt, “The wine, the carpet, my fire, even blood— it can enter anything that’s red! And you feel everything that dumb ghost does!”

“Pft, like knowing that’s going to help you.” Boo replied, wiping the ichor from her face. She took a step closer, cracked him across the nose, and continued their brawl with neither party playing fair.

Now that the morning rays finally pierced through the mists of the forest, and word of carnage had swept through town, other members of the Witch’s guard had begun gathering near the combatants; grimoires at the ready. 

A young woman with coke-bottle glasses swooped in close to Boo, asking if their leader needed them to recapture the ambassador, “General! Shouldn’t we help you with this?!”

“We could get him easily.” Added an elderly witch, who hopped down from her broom to meet the general on the ground. 

Boo, with a little blood dripping down her forehead, yelled at the convened guard, “Don’t interfere! This fight is between Magnus, and _me_.”

“Sir Wing? But I don’t see him…” the youngest said, before screaming, “Wait! The ambassador’s gone!” at their hostage’s sudden absence.

“Do you at least want us to search for him?” begged the older woman, knowing too well how the ghost mage liked running things.

“No need. He left a trail.” Boo said, pointing at a series of bloodied bootprints that led into a more residential area of the trees. “Just wait here, I’ll get him myself.”

——————————

Three minutes had passed. Three blessed minutes in which Magna hadn’t seen hide or hair of his relentless pursuer, or had his bones broken by the monstrous woman. 

There was an elderly woman occupying the house until she saw the pile of battered magic knight shamble inside. She’d fled in a hurry, and Magna was left alone to dread his immediate future.

_You can’t die here Magna— You made a promise._

The fire mage’s heart palpitated when the building’s door was ripped off its hinges. Boo walked quite casually past the threshold and regarded her target without a trace of emotion in her eyes. The floorboards creaked underneath her, and she stayed silent until her teeth ground audibly. 

“What the Hell are you doing in my house. I don’t give a shit if you’re the ambassador, if you laid a finger on my mom or spouse, I’ll turn you into a thin. Red. Paste.”

“Of course I didn’t, that would be super unmanly of me. I’d rather _die_ than attack an innocent old lady.” He huffed in response, slumping against the back wall, wincing in pain. “I swear, I haven’t hurt anyone but you since the duel began.”

“That’s a relief…” Boo said, unflexing slightly as she approached him, “But don’t flatter yourself, you haven’t even hurt _me_ yet. Just turn yourself in already, you little maniac.”

“Ne… never.”

Cornered, bleeding, bruised, and short of breath, Magna raised his arms again; staring down the general with fire in his eyes. Three minutes was enough time for his brain to have cooked up another hare-brained gambit, and Magna was resolute that his new plan would work. After all, the alternative was his capture and inevitable torture by the Witch Queen.

“Like _Hell_ I’d lose here.” 

Even though the man was struggling to keep his eyes open, he channeled every last ounce of mana in his battered body into his most basic spell. A flaming bat appeared between his hands, but he focused as hard as he could on his weapon rather than the figure of「Wuthering Heights」reaching through the fire towards his neck.

Ghostly fingers encircled clear around Magna’s throat, and he began to suffocate him as each digit squeezed like a vise. His crimson weapon heated up with the last iota of concentration in him, and just before the man collapsed from oxygen deprivation, a pained shout boomed from across the building.

Boo clutched at her arm, nursing a fresh burn wound as her phantom dissipated.

A proud, toothy smile decorated Magna’s face, and in the punk’s hands was an incandescent, white-hot bat, ”Must burn, touching something hotter than hot. Looks like I’ve finally found my way through your 「Wuthering Heights」. If red fire ain’t strong enough, I’ll just go beyond, and break all my limits!”

“Good grief… do you even understand that you’re beaten?” Was the only response he received for all his boasting, “Maybe my arm burns, but you’re out of mana— I’d bet you can’t keep that spell up for even five more seconds.”

“Probably not…” Magna agreed as one of his legs gave out, sending him down to a knee, “but I can always try.” 

The fire mage’s other leg soon hit the floor, and he nursed the torturous ache in his ribs, but still held his weapon proud as Boo stomped closer. “You should’ve given up a while ago. I’m not even hurt, but you…” the giant woman lifted him by the ascot, “you look like death warmed over.”

Magna’s last spell faded away in his hand, and his arms finally gave out; meaning his only weapon left against the general was an intense stare. Adamantly refusing to admit defeat, the boy hung limp from Boo’s hold as she drew back her fist for the knockout.

Before she could finish their duel in earnest, pure magic energy ripped the wall behind Boo into splinters, and into the ensuing breach strutted the most powerful known woman. 

Magna gagged on air at the sight of her: The Witch Queen. It was as if she took up the entire room, looming even next to the massive figure of Boo. 

“That is _enough_.” Her voice was calm and regal, but the maleficent presence accompanying it made Magna tremble. Staring down at the bloodied figures before her, the Witch Queen sneered, “Step aside, General, I shall deal with this whelp myself.”


	10. Authenticity Trip

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Are you ready for this? I know I wasn’t! please settle in for the longest chapter yet!

Magna’s vision was going fuzzy again from the pain, and he couldn’t fight, scream, protest or even _move_ as that frightening woman drew closer. The Witch Queen shot the bloodied duo another little scowl, and it was enough to make Boo drop the man; he hit the floorboards hard as his eyes went too bleary to see anything around him.

Though Magna remained conscious from his spot on the ground, the severely injured mage could only hear the racing of his heart— all else in the world fading to darkness from abject terror. Warmth dripped down his face as tears formed behind his glasses, and he was left to contemplate his fate.

_Crap. I’m gonna die today, aren’t I?_

After a second ear-splitting explosion went off in the house just a few feet from where he lay, Magna’s limp body was pulled up onto its knees, and he felt a calloused pair of hands stabilize him by the shoulders. The terrified man opened his eyes to see Boo slumped against a broken beam, and icy, blue irises gazing down at him. 

Looking up with the last ounce of strength in him, he watched as the scariest woman on earth— _the_ Witch Queen—asked, “Aww, did the mean lady hurt you?”

Concern dripped from her words, but the only response she received was a bewildered gargle, whereafter Magna finally succumbed to his injuries. 

——————————————

Later that same day.

The ambassador awoke with a splitting headache, which he thought of as more typical in terms of waking up. Just like this morning, he was locked in that damn cage, still dressed in his suit, and still too confused to make any fuss.

Magna rose from the bed expecting the rest of him feeling as awful as his throbbing skull. Dumbfounded to feel none of his broken bones or lacerations screaming in protest, the manly man hurried to check the status of his body. His jaw hit the floor when he saw an absolute dearth of blood or viscera on his person— just some heavy bruising, and his beautiful white suit torn in enough places to resemble Swiss cheese.

Sticking a hand into his waist to remove one of his broken bones—don’t worry, just a corset bone—he finally noticed the other person in the cage.

“Gah!!” The boy shrieked upon seeing the Witch Queen gazing out the window a mere three feet away.

Her Majesty turned to face Magna after his embarrassing yelp, and barely bothered with the affectation of a smile when she greeted him. “Ah, ambassador Wing, you’re awake. I’ve been meaning to talk with you.”

Even when she was being perfectly polite, Sangue’s presence was overwhelming; her every movement resembled a tiger’s muscles flexing with killing intent just under the skin. But if the Queen had wanted him dead, Magna would already have an obituary, so he choked down the fear and locked eyes with her.

Pacing his opulent prison to try and quell his mounting terror, the yankee barely made it two steps before hitting the bars. It utterly failed to calm him, and served as a reminder of why Vanessa cried on his shoulders on bad nights. The most inappropriate words Magna could say to the Queen were what left his mouth in lieu of a greeting. 

“This is the room you kept her in. I know Vanessa— _know_ how you locked her in here for her whole childhood.” He said as he white-knuckled the bars, afraid that he might puke from fear of retribution, ”How _dare_ you think it’s okay to just throw me, or anyone else in a cage!”

The stupid young man braved himself for the consequences of such impudence as he glared, but the Witch Queen’s face didn’t display malice; her visage turned somber, and she turned her icy gaze away from Magna before she spoke, “Of all the missteps I’ve made in my life, my treatment of my daughter is my greatest regret, but I don’t see any problems holding _you_ in here. Despite the bad memories, I couldn’t bear to remove her old room…” 

Her mournful expression shifted into a more neutral look, and she added with a shrug, “And beside that, it was the only spare room in the castle.”

“Huh? Spare room?” Magna asked dumbly, his expression now matching Sangue’s in blankness. 

“Well, there were others, but this was the nicest one. The only quarters suited for an esteemed hostage such as yourself. It’s outfitted with privacy screens, a magic deflecting exterior, and beautiful antique furnishings.”

“An… esteemed… _hostage_?”

“You know, a ‘hostage’?” The pink-haired woman said as though the definition couldn’t be more self evident, “As in somebody you hold up in your house and give food to? A person you invite over knowing they’ll stay over for at least a couple days?”

Magna was beside himself with shock. No longer able to keep his voice down, the spitfire shouted, “Do you mean _guest_?!”

“Ah yes, _that’s_ the word.” The Queen popped a fist into her open hand.

“Wait…” the rusty gears in the noble yankee’s head were turning as the inanity sank in, “Then what about when you called me a ‘plaything’?”

“Plaything: A person that one might chat over tea or have a pleasant game of chess with.”

After the Queen’s two explanations, Magna was practically going ‘blue screen of death’ and had to sit down so he wouldn’t _fall_ down. “And what about your General? Attacking me like that? Trying to kick the crap outta me? I almost died!”

The Witch Queen looked like she was experiencing secondhand embarrassment at his question, putting a hand over her face while she explained, “She’s… Boo is just like that. This will be the only apology you ever wrest from my person, but I’m terribly sorry about your ordeal this morning.”

“Thanks, miss Sangue, I’m grateful you’d be so patient with my temper.” The ambassador said, amazed that he still had a head attached to his shoulders, “So… what you’re saying is I‘m not in any danger, right?”

“Oh heavens no, you are in nearly _unfathomable_ danger; the Diamond and Spade Kingdoms would fear nothing more than an alliance between our lands, and to prevent that, their agents would do nightmarish things to you. Kidnapping, assassination, torture…” 

As her banged-up guest paused, both aghast and silent, the Witch Queen added, “Not that there are any in our vicinity. You _are_ safe for the moment.”

“Well, that’s a relief” Magna exhaled, amazed to discover his death or dismemberment wasn’t imminent.

The way the ambassador slumped back in his chair with his legs spread like that, and the casual way he flicked back his hair, it was like he was _trying_ to distract the Queen. But in that same movement to recline, Magnus hissed in pain and his hostess snapped back to the present, ready to exposit more to the still-injured diplomat.

Clearing her throat, Sangue said, “I could’ve healed the rest of your injuries had I removed your suit, but my company seemed too keen to see you undressed. Not simply due to unprofessionalism though, you smell like refuse— and my seamstress nearly fainted when she saw the state of your suit.”

“Actually, that gives me an idea.” The Queen mused with a finger on her sharp chin, ”Having made such a mess of yourself, sir Magnus, you shall bathe with me.“

“I _could_ go for a bath… Wait!? We!?”

“Yes, _we_, both of us. Deandra will help you get undressed.”

“Do you mean the same Deandra who tells those corny jokes?“

“The same. She is my least, er…” the pink-haired witch searched the air for an appropriate adjective and settled for, “libidinous, chamberlain. We haven’t any males around to help with your dressing, but she’ll likely do better.” 

“Wait, but—“

“—I tire of your questions Magnus, hurry to our bath, and that’s an _order_.” The woman interrupted while turning around, shooting her ‘hostage’ a glare that could peel paint off a barn as she left the cage.

His heart pounding like a motorcycle engine, Magna just sat and watched while her majesty left the tower, her shoes clicking unevenly on the marble floor he’d helped Boo destroy that morning. To describe the feeling in his stomach as butterflies would be a categorical understatement— something more akin to a starved wolverine was lashing about in Magna’s guts.

He clearly hadn’t a choice to remain where he was since it was an order, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t hesitant to rise from his seat. Nevertheless, the young mage got his boots on the ground and marched after her with only mild pain to hamper his steps.

There was a pair of guards stationed immediately without his quarters, and it wasn’t until he’d hobbled past them that the man realized he had no clue where he was supposed to go. Magna couldn’t fight back the oncoming blush of asking where the bath was, so he opted for an easier question for his poor, virgin heart to handle. Please pretend that didn’t say virgin.

“Pardon, do either of y’all know where I might find Deandra Aviary?” He drawled involuntarily.

Both the guardswomen had the look on their faces that one might expect to see if they’d just told someone their dinner was going to be a deep-fried shoe with a couple raw poker chips on the side, but they answered all the same, “That nuisanc— er, _she_ is waiting just down those stairs.”

After a nod of his head to give thanks, Magna shuffled his way through halls towards the blonde witch, who was practically bouncing on her heels at the foot of the tower stairwell. Fighting to keep his face a shade other than crimson, the man told her, “I am to bathe with the Queen.”

“Oh yeah! She told me you’d be down soon!” Came Deandra’s chipper response as she signaled Magna deeper towards the arboreal castle’s retiring wing. “The Queen was all like: ‘Make certain the boy hastens hither’, so please follow me down to her majesty’s bath.”

His breathing fell into an arrhythmic stutter as he followed behind the goofy-serious girl until she posed the question: “Say, do you wanna hear a joke?”

The little blonde witch had the precise opposite effect of her queen: Settling the ambassador’s nerves with her antics while she escorted him. A little smile found itself on the boy’s mouth, and he answered her, “Lay it on me, Dee.”

————————————————————

Over in one of the castle’s many secret rooms, the Witch Queen and her top general conversed over imperative matters. The smaller, scarier woman’s hat rested on a hook, and the pair were seated in austere chairs.

“Do you know why I’m punishing you general?” Sangue asked, her clawed fingers steepled. “Why I refuse to heal your injuries at all?”

With all six feet, five inches of Boo looking like a scolded puppy, the giant woman answered, “I’m being punished because I attacked the ambassador…”

“Not quite. You see, I woke up this morning expecting to have a simple talk with Magnus, but instead found a path of conflagration and wreckage stretching across nearly my entire kingdom. And at the end of that trail, I found the most important dignitary in the nation lying in a pool of his own blood.” The Queen explained, gritting her pearly teeth, “The only reason I haven’t _executed_ you is because I understand you have new information on our hostage. Give me that report, and hasten yourself.”

Boo pulled her head out from between her broad shoulders, and drew back to her usual stature before speaking up, “The man we know as Magnus Wing is a genius. His mana pool is without doubt the smallest in the forest, but his magic control is top class. He even developed a new technique during the fight— I can’t understate how dangerous the ambassador is.”

“Interesting. I already knew about his mana levels, but could you expand upon Magnus’ rank and intelligence?”

“I can confirm that he’s at the lowest rank a magic knight can hold, but my wife’s current theory for _why_ is that he was adopted by a noble family and trained to be a spy from youth.” Boo explained, still doing her best to lean away from the leering Queen. “About his genius, Magnus got the drop on me at least three times during our fight, and even though every attack I used was meant to knock him out, he wouldn’t stay down. Good grief, that bastard wouldn’t go down.”

Sangue nodded, a good sign compared to a lot of other gestures she could’ve gone with. “One more question, General… What does the boy fear?”

Lifting her dark brown eyes to meet the Queen’s icy irises, Boo responded, “From what I’ve gathered, Magnus fears only two things: Death, and _you_.”

“That’s a comprehensive analysis, thank you, general. But it seems our hostage will be far tougher for me to control than I’d suspected… the boy mouthed off to me mere minutes ago. That says to me he fears neither myself, nor death.” Sangue raised a finger to her angular chin as she rose from her seat. “Either way, General, I’m off to my bath.”

The massive woman sighed in relief at her meeting’s end, and left to go tell the rest of the guard their orders remained the same. “Oh, and one last thing…” The Witch Queen said, scraping her claws across the hidden room’s threshold and freezing Boo mid-rise, “I didn’t intend that execution threat, I’ve been meaning to cut back on those. But you’re still being punished _very_ harshly, make no mistake about that.”

As Sangue slipped out of the room, she too slipped out of her bodice.

——————————————

In the antechamber for Her Majesty’s bath, a couple of small idiots paced through a door into a smaller area where Magna was expected to undress. Deandra stood by the entrance with an arm prepared to accept the street punk’s ruined clothing, but on the stall’s interior, Magna was having troubles dealing with his situation. He knew he was in way over his head with this mission, but there was never any going back, so he untied his ascot and braced himself for the worst.

The chamberlain, however, had no anxieties or qualms. After looking from one end of the changing room to the other without moving her head a centimeter, Deandra leaned towards her hidden charge conspiratorially and asked, “Say, do ya wanna hear another joke?”

“I really don’t. Not now.” Magna replied as his stomach tied itself in anxious knots; though he was still unlacing himself from his perforated garments, the boy was antsy about it, “I’m still trying to wrap my head around this whole disaster.”

“Kickass. Here’s an amazing one:” the blonde witch began despite being declined. “What does a spoon have in common with a starved, rabid grizzly bear?“

She waited through several seconds of silence, and accepted a couple ruined pieces of clothing before delivering the punchline, “Surprisingly little!”

“Oh, that’s just awful.” Came Magna’s voice between groans and chuckles.

Now completely undressed on the far side of the stall’s short barrier, the ambassador took a shaky breath in and grabbed the door handle. Just as Magna began to walk out, a thought stopped his legs mid stride, “Wait a sec. When the Queen said we would ‘bathe together’,” he air-quoted, ”what does that mean in old timey?“

“Oh, that translates to _swimming_— just beyond this chamber lies her majesty’s aerobics pool, so please don these provided trunks.”

Exhaling from so deep within his lungs he thought he might deflate, the yankee accepted the swimsuit and pulled it on; wincing only slightly as his hamstring protested the movement.

_Why does everything the queen say sound like some kinda threat? How in the Hell does ‘I order you to bathe with me’ equal ‘let’s go for a swim?’_ Magna pondered as he walked out of the changing stall. 

Hardly three steps out of cover, the boy was splashed from his thoughts by a wave of frigid water. “Gah!! Have you no mercy!?”

“We kindly ask you not to get dried blood in her majesty’s pool.” Deandra said, holding up an empty bucket with a mischievous smile on her face.

The ambassador considered giving her some choice (swear)words until he saw the filthy water at his feet, and honestly? Getting dunked on like that reminded him of home with the Black Bulls, so the fire mage just left to the pool wordlessly; hoping that the fancy garments he’d spent so, _so_ much money on would be wearable again soon.

The Witch Queen was already swimming laps by the time he’d reached the primary bath chamber. And quite the interesting sight she was: An old-timey bathing suit patterned with horizontal stripes clung to her hips and reached the full distance to her knees as she exercised in the pool. The lady was for all practical purposes fully dressed, and unlike usual, she had her long tresses of pink hair in a single, loose braid. Her swimming form was flawless, and she seemed to be enjoying herself.

When the woman got to the end of her lap, she grabbed a goblet of merlot and tipped the thing daintily back for a sip. To Magna’s chagrin, it was a sip that lasted for several seconds.

_Isn’t it like, three P.M.? This must be where Vanessa got her nasty habits._

The Witch Queen looked up from her chalice at the sound of Magnus’ footsteps and saw the young man with a towel draped around his broad, muscular shoulders like a terrycloth shawl. Between the abundance of scars and muscles coating the ambassador’s torso, she couldn’t imagine the Clover Kingdom sending a more obvious spy, but she also suddenly had trouble imagining him with his shirt _on_.__

_ _In some bizarre combination of an order and invitation, Sangue said, “Hop in ambassador, I can’t heal you from yonder.”_ _

_ _In an even stranger cocktail of a bow and a salute, Magna agreed to her beckoning; diving into the pool, relieved to see this was just how terrifying, ancient, malevolent sorceresses got their exercise in. As he adjusted to the surprisingly comfortable water, the Queen backstroked past him to complete her set._ _

_ _Growing tipsier by the second, Ms. Sangue started drifting closer to the man in her bath. Magna figured she had to get in arms reach to finish healing him, but that thought didn’t stop him backing away from her; after all, that menacing aura was still coming off of her in waves. Struggling to maintain his poise as nerve turned his heart into a drum, Magna found himself backed into the water’s edge, and the Queen brought herself closer to him._ _

_ _“H-hey, you’re not gonna get rid of any of my scars, are you?” He asked, finally voicing his fear, and almost climbing backwards out of the pool._ _

_ _“Ohoho, there’s nary a need to worry about that, Magnus.” Sangue laughed in response, cheeks tinted a rosy pink. No longer inhibited all that much due to the cavalcade of alcohol marching through her veins, she draped an arm across his shoulders, “It’s funny, actually, despite having the world’s most puissant healing spells, I can’t rid people of scars; they’re simply parts of the skin that have already repaired themselves.”_ _

_ _“Oh, okay… I’m just really proud of some of these.” Magna sighed with half-seized lungs as the woman’s hand traced across his battered torso. Everywhere her calloused fingers brushed was immediately relieved of pain; the large contusions vanishing in an instant by her magic._ _

_ _“But do tell me Magnus,” the Queen asked as she traced a finger north to his forehead, onto the blackened, vertical split of skin above his left eye, “How does a dashing nobleman such as yourself acquire a scar quite like this?” _ _

_ _“That one’s _private_.” Magna said a little louder than he meant to, backing his face away from the lady’s inquisitive hand. Not wanting to upset his drunken, nigh-omnipotent hostess, the man added, “But you can ask me about any other.”_ _

_ _Satisfied with his concession, the Witch Queen lit a single nail upon the ambassador’s shoulder; eyeing the oddly shaped scar resting there, she let a tiny smile decorate her blue lips. “Then tell me about this one. Where’d you get it?”_ _

_ _In the back of his mind, Magna wished she’d asked about a different, _cooler_ scar, but he wasn’t going to lie about any of their origins. Barely able to breathe anymore with this brazen woman raptly inspecting his old injuries, the Clover ambassador replied, “B-baseball. Some punk kid was using his magic to pitch, and I caught it right in the shoulder.” ___ _

_ _ _ _What he got in response was a confused stare, and so Magna expanded upon the story, “H-his team was down by five, so he cheated, and the baseball split my skin. I couldn’t get it patched before it scarred.”_ _ _ _

_ _ _ _“Hold up.“ the scary lady asked, eyebrows furrowed in confusion, “What’s baseball?” _ _ _ _

_ _ _ _Before she could get an answer, a spot of bile rose up her neck; lipstick smudged slightly as her face tinted verdant green. With a voice calmer than an autumn breeze, the classy woman said, “Excuse me.” Taking a few casual—if uneasy—steps out of her opulent indoor pool, the Queen found a nearby bucket and vomited into it. _ _ _ _

_ _ _ _Happy that her queasiness abated as soon as it began, she wiped a spot of bile from her mouth and turned to indulge in another lap. Then Sangue saw that the ambassador was looking right at her from the water’s edge. _Crap. That handsome chap just watched me throw up, didn’t he?__ _ _ _

_ _ _ _Needless to say, the Queen’s face became a few shades redder than the rosy tint the alcohol had given her. As their eyes locked in awkward chagrin, Magna’s stomach growled so audibly that it echoed off the walls; sounding almost like an enraged tiger. _Crap. You could hear that from the moon.__ _ _ _

_ _ _ _With that embarrassing exchange, both the most important figures in the nation were stunned into voicelessness, and tato-red in the face._ _ _ _

_ _ _ _“Uhh… were you afforded the chance to have breakfast, ambassador?“ the witch asked to break their palpable silence._ _ _ _

_ _ _ _“Umm… not yet?”_ _ _ _

_ _ _ _———————————————_ _ _ _

_ _ _ _It was less awkward than Magna had expected, sitting down at the same table where he’d been suffocated just the night before, across from the woman he saw vomit less than an hour ago, but going over the details of peacemaking worked wonders on embarrassment for the two dignitaries. Especially over food. Also especially when they both had their fancy duds back on._ _ _ _

_ _ _ _The Witch Queen had more or less said that drafting up a list of demands and concessions for an alliance or treaty would be his work, seeing as how he hadn’t brought a proposal with him. She’d also reiterated on the importance of ‘Magnus’ staying vigilant and out of harm’s way._ _ _ _

_ _ _ _As servants carried away the dishes from in front of her seat, a lone guard rushed by and whispered urgently into the Queen’s ear. One of her eyebrows quirked up, and the pink-haired woman dismissed both her scullery maids before turning back to Magna. “I’ve just caught word of Diamond Kingdom mages lurking around the border from my sentries, and not just the ones I’ve invited to the ball. Which reminds me, ambassador… for your own safety, you aren’t _ever_ allowed to leave the castle.“ _ _ _ _

_ _ _ _After a small while’s pause wherein Magna’s expression shifted from minor excitement to abject dread, the Queen amended her command with an important detail. “Not without a guard detail.”_ _ _ _

_ _ _ _“Oh. Thank goodness…” the boy exhaled for the umpteenth time that day._ _ _ _

_ _ _ _“And don’t forget, the treaty can be completed only by marriage.” Magna had managed to let that detail slip his mind, and the Queen’s reminder froze him like an elk staring at an oncoming train. _ _ _ _

_ _ _ _“I’m aware you can handle yourself in a tussle, but I demand that you avoid any and all fighting. If anything were to happen to my bridegroom, or if he started acting out of line, I might have to take extreme action.” Her words rang like a death knell in Magna’s ears. It was as if time froze while the sheer depth of her threat sank in. _ _ _ _

_ _ _ _ _H-how could she possibly say something like that? What the hell does she mean ‘no fighting’!? Why didn’t she just say ‘no food’!?_ _ _ _ _

_ _ _ _She grazed his chin with a graceful, taloned finger as she leaned in closer toward his gray eyes. “But please, enjoy your evening, fiancé. We needn’t begin our work until tomorrow.“_ _ _ _


	11. Dead

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How does a man as rowdy as Magna handle the restrictions and commands the Queen has set for him? 
> 
> Very, very poorly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hoo boy, this one got completely out of hand… I’m sorry for the wait on the chapter, but I’m much more sorry for what I’m about to put Magna through!

The guardswoman in the castle tower put a gloved hand in front of her mouth and let out a mighty yawn to let the universe know she was tired; it was the wee hours of the morning, after all. Wait, that sounded misleading— you see, she had woken up scarcely a half-hour ago, so it was _that_ kind (the bedheadded kind) of tired.

The door behind Frida had blocked out any of the usual sounds one might expect a sleeping person to make, but earlier in the evening and morning, ambassador Magnus had asked her a couple of small questions. Nothing too interesting, but it was fun for her to see how excitable a scary, uptight dignitary like himself could be.

A little grin perked the sides of her mouth skyward mid-yawn, knowing she would be riding the high of those complements he’d given her for a few days.

Frida was settling in for a long, boring night watch, and stretched to rattle the sleep out of her bones; knowing that conking out on the job would be unforgivable based on her charge. She adjusted her dummy-thick glasses, and brought a small book out of her pocket to peruse when there came a knocking on the door behind her.

Quite nearly yelping in surprise, Frida put a hand on her grimoire as she turned to face the offending doors. Creaking open like a rusted gate, the wooden barrier soon revealed the handsome, broad shouldered figure of the Clover ambassador; blood was pouring from a fresh wound on his arm, and Magnus had one more question for the young witch.

“Hey,” he said with his perfect teeth gritted in pain, “do you know how to hide a body?”

————————————————

Fifteen hours earlier.

Magna despised the feeling of being coddled deep in his guts— not like when Deandra helped him get dressed, because she was hilarious to talk to, and it wasn’t like he could lace a corset by himself. No, what he hated was happening right now; engirded on all sides by witches despite that this was just supposed to be a ‘lighthearted excursion into town’.

The excessive guard detail was intended to protect him from hecklers, spies, fights, poisoned food, gropers, pickpockets, assassins, muggers, and merchants who overcharged for cabbage, but it seemed more to Magna like they were shielding him from any semblance of fun. The yankee-in-noble’s clothing could smell all kinds of wonderful scents wafting up from carts and stalls in the marketplace, but the Witch Queen had insisted on all her largest guards accompanying him outside, so he couldn’t _see_ any of the desserts that surrounded them. 

But by God were those aromas tempting.

It wrenched at his poor heart to hear about the very first pudding batch of the day being set out for sale, but not be allowed to approach the counter upon which they lay. Magna’s guard detail denied him any of the desserts on the grounds of ‘potential poisoning’ and ushered—or rather, dragged—him deeper into the marketplace, nearly reducing the boy to tears. 

Maintaining his princely composure was getting harder with every step, so the anguished boy just grit his teeth and tried to shut down all his senses. It didn’t work. Every single time they got near something cool and/or dangerous-looking the guards would try to _ensure_ Magna got nowhere closer to it. That also didn’t work; the young man was a magnitude stronger than his wiry frame, and ascot suggested.

At the ambassador’s incessant attempts to break from their formation, the elderly, stern-faced leader of his detail—and a woman far too important to be on babysitting duty—General Weatherwax ordered someone closer to his age to keep him more… orderly. So the senior witch shoved a meek girl with coke-bottle glasses into the center of their phalanx with a simple, “Introduce yourself.” as instruction.

That olive skinned girl blushed as her boss’s wrinkly hand pushed her in front of the scar-faced man, but quickly snapped her own hand up in a salute and said, “Hello, ambassador Wing! I am Lieutenant Frida Mondragon Posada-Sanchez! Pleased to meet you!”

“I love that enthusiasm! You probably already know me, but my name’s Magnus!”

Though Magna didn’t quite recognize the pair, Boo would know them as the early birds who tried to interfere with her beatdown of the fire mage. This wasn’t a problem seeing as how the very previous thing Frida said was her rank and name… 

_Wait, rank?_

“Hold up, you’re a lieutenant?” Asked the young man as he was physically compelled further along the market path; Magna had been briefed on the forest’s defenses, and nothing was mentioned about a proper standing force. “But I’ve never heard of the Witch’s Forest having a military.”

“That’s cause it’s brand new.” Frida explained, one finger aimed skyward, another adjusting her preposterously thick glasses, “We had a small militia before, but the Queen just recently made us into the ‘Witch guard’. She said it was to keep the forest safer without as many golems, so her majesty held tryouts for new recruits— and she was so impressed with _my_ magic that I skipped the trial.”

She hummed, lost in thought for a second before adding, “Or I skipped the trial because I was already in the militia… either way, she was dazzled!”

Magna was curious a second ago, and riveted now, “Huh? What kinda magic dazzles the Witch Queen?”

“Observe.”

The girl’s grimoire glowed for a second, and bones started sprouting all around her body like a calcarious suit of armor; within seconds, the bespectacled witch was entombed fully in weaponized bone. To put it in clear, concise vernacular: It looked totally sick.

There where sparkles in the ambassador’s eyes while he ogled the armor, and as he was shoved forward by Weatherwax herself, he shouted, “Whoa!! That’s so manly! Er, uh, I mean, amazing! How hard was this to learn? I’ve only seen like, two people use magic armor! This is _so_ cool!”

Magna leaned in closer to inspect the boney, spiked gauntlets on the witch’s arm, and under her calavera mask, Frida felt her face heat up; the ambassador, who seemed so aloof and uptight a scant second ago was simply gushing over her magic, and it was more than enough to make the girl blush.

A bell pealed twice in the middle distance, and an announcer’s voice rang out with an excited cry; the perfect recipe to snap Magna’s attention away from the bone armor, giving Frida a rest from his awestruck scrutiny. “Is that the sound of—!?”

“Welcome, witches of the Forest to Bruja Lucha!!!” The announcer called out, “In this corner we have the dashing Hermione Wurlitzer, and in the red corner it’s her dastardly nemesis!”

“There’s pro wrestling in the market!?” Magna hollered as he tried jumping high enough to see above his torturers’ pointed hats. He caught a glimpse of the following…

“Folks, it’s a flying power bomb! Ooh, that looks like it hurt!”

“Raaaahh!!!!”

“Raaahhh!!”

Just before the Heel of this event caught Hermione in a headlock, a fist stole Magna’s collar and forced him back earthward. The boy deflated as the guards dragged him bodily away from the wrestling ring; at least half of his detail seemed genuinely sad about leaving the market’s screaming crowd, and one of the rowdier witches said, “Sorry, ambassador, we have strict orders to avoid any and all fights.”

“Even this one?”

Frida wiped a tear from her cheek, confirming that, “Yeah, you’re not even allowed near fighting.”

_It’s like the Queen knows exactly how to torture me. I can’t even WATCH people hurt each other?_

“You don’t have time for such base spectacles anyway, the Witch Queen already has a destination in mind for you.” Weatherwax snoot-ed.

“Umm… what do you mean, Granny Weatherwax?”

The second witch general pinched the bridge of her nose, already sickened of Magnus’ addition of ‘Granny’ to her name and said, “This isn’t some pointless trip to the market you daft pup, you’re here to draw attention, and have a quill pen custom made.”

“Aww, come on, can’t I at least get some of that ‘death curry’ over by the knife shop and firework stand?”

“Every word of that sentence was worse than the last.” The wizened old woman deadpanned as her charge made puppy dog eyes. The supplicating gesture looked frankly disturbing coming from a lad with a sizable scar on his face. “Now you’ve kept us long enough already Magnus, so hurry the Hell up. A quill fitting isn’t a short process, _especially_ not for people with small amounts of magic.“

“Umm… How long will that take?”

“At minimum, two hours. For you, closer to three an’ a half. And your hands _will_ cramp, so you’d best start stretching now.” Came her unsympathetic response.

As the boy was ushered into a lavishly expensive looking boutique—suspecting this process would again be paid by his own empty pockets—an old thought recurred in his head.

_Why me?_

————————————

Misty sunlight poured in from an open window in a quaint, yet regal study. The Witch Queen sat behind a gorgeous mahogany desk and busied herself with scratching out a draft of her treaty with Clover. After a truly forceful scrape from her quill echoed across the room, she could hear a pair of footsteps enter her private library. 

Miss Sangue didn’t bother looking up at her guests, at least, not until after she had completely obliterated the parchment in her hand. Keeping her grumbles to herself, but not her soul-piercing death glare, the Queen peered up with a question that’d been ruining her life so far this morning. 

“How has research into Magnus’ background gone, science team? I need that data posthaste.“

The sisters Phoebe and Hilda jumped back slightly at the sudden call, but the taller scientist cleared her throat fast enough to beat her elder in response time. 

“D-difficult, miss Sangue. No matter how hard we search through the articles and papers Clover sent us, the ambassador doesn’t seem to be reported on.” Hilda’s eyes went slightly crossed with nerve, but the spindly nerd powered on with a query for the Queen anyway. “Um, but, uh, just a quick question your Highness… why do you need to know about Magnus’ background so bad?”

“Because, Hilda, it would prove far easier to judge a man’s worth if one knew of his past.” Sangue answered, “Even if he is dreamy, my intentions are to secure as much advantage in the Clover deal as I can. I can hardly draft my demands without knowing whether he’d get me a king’s ransom or a pauper’s salary. Okay, your report, Phoebe, now.” 

_Did the Queen just say ‘dreamy’?_ Phoebe wondered before prepping the papers of her own study. “Umm, ahem, My genealogical research corroborates your own, your Highness: Nothing can be found on the Wing family in Clover, and Magnus isn’t a registered member of the Black Bulls. Looking further into the matter, it’s, well… it’s as if Magnus Wing doesn’t exist.“

Her boss’s face fell in an instant. The Queen of witches knew that despite the chasm between their dispositions, the science sisters were equally erudite; when they agreed on something, it was best to believe them… even if Hilda was a walking bisexual disaster.

“Nothing? You found _nothing_?” Rubbing around her temples, Sangue stood up and groaned, “Good lord… I should never have skipped that boy’s interrogation. Pretending to be nice is awful— I hate men so much.”

Phoebe hopped out of the path her Queen was carving straight out the room, and said, “Well, you _do_ catch more flies with vinegar than honey.”

“I think you have that saying backwards…” Hilda piped up from a few steps back, fiddling with her wedding band out of nerve.

“As a scientist, I can confirm that the common insect prefers vinegar.” Phoebe asserted to her younger sibling before turning to face her Queen once more, “Following that allegory, I believe your most appropriate action here is to cow the ambassador into obedience. Threats of grievous violence should work fine.”

“Phoebe, have you actually met Magnus? That boy knows _absolutely_ no fear, so I’m starting with honey. I expect it will do better than vinegar has for me in the past…” The Witch Queen steepled her fingers in that way she often did, changing the subject back to her current methods, “Why, even now the ambassador should be having a fabulous time, seeing as how I’ve bestowed him one of the Forest’s highest honors. He shall return from his lovely little excursion, and be perfectly willing to cooperate on my terms.”

“Are you sure you want to play the long game? You‘ve got a tight deadline here…” Phoebe challenged, leaning closer to the clawed woman in a way that only a single-minded scientist could.

“Enough with your worrying already— I’ll give the ambassador exactly two days to become pliant to me. If he refuses to cooperate after such time, I’ll put the screws to his thumbs, and Make. Him. Obey.” 

As the conversation wound down, a senior member of the Witch Guard floated into the hall through a stone aperture, and gave an unsteady salute to the trio below her. Once the new arrival to the meeting got close enough for shouts to be unnecessary, the Queen asked her, “What have you to report of my hostage’s morning trip? Only good things, I expect.”

The witch, who was already shaking when she got off her broom, coughed into a hand before saying, “To directly quote Magnus…” and clicking the side of a magical noise box on. 

From the speaker came the ambassador’s voice, however grainy the recording was, he said, “If the Queen wants to torture me so bad, she can get her hands dirty like a real man. I hate this, I hate her, I hate everything! Get away from me, can’t you see I’m trying to cry!?”

Various vials and sconces decorating the cloister shook, creaked like an old galleon, and then burst; the stones around the quartet shifted and ground supernaturally, but when they looked at the Witch Queen, her face was serene. Leaning in foolishly close to the pink-haired matriarch, Hilda could hear the grinding of teeth.

“If you want to live. Leave now.” The Queen said, dismissing all her attendants as blood boiled under her skin. She stood there placidly for ten minutes, until the entire pathway was reduced to rubble.

When Magna returned from his trip, he refused any audience with her Majesty, skulking past everyone in the castle while he nursed his hand; hoping he could at least get some work done in his soured mood.

——————————————

The sun had gone down long ago, allowing instead for moonbeams to filter through the cage bars; dancing and mixing with candlelight to illuminate the parchment on Magna’s nightstand. It’d only hit the boy on his fifth hour of drafting a negotiation that Sangue likely hadn’t meant for him to begin work on it without her input. 

That helped to explain the sheer volume of scrapped drafts he had gone through with no clue as to what a treaty was even supposed to look like. He at least knew who won that wrestling match, after asking Frida about it earlier in the evening.

He cursed under his breath out of frustration, and the stubborn bastard finally gave in to the bags gathering under his eyes; rubbing at his sleepy face as a bullet careened past his head. Magna had just leaned sideways to set down his glasses, and if he’d done so a split-second later, he would be missing a chunk of his scalp.

Turning his head around to face the source of that quiet gunshot, Magna saw a hooded, rifle-toting silhouette on the stone windowsill. The newcomer cursed under their breath while loading another round, seemingly because they were stupid enough to not recognize they’d been spotted. Though to be fair, the rudimentary firearm was equipped with a silencer.

Bewildered by such a sudden attempt on his life, but too tired to be bothered about it, Magna walked to the edge of his cage and said to the assassin, “Hey, uh, bitch. You know I can see you, right?”

Startled by their target’s question, the shadowed figure slipped and fell ten feet to the floor, cursing again as they impacted uneven marble butt-first. Magna could tell it was a man’s voice hurling those muffled imprecations, and sauntered out of his combination cage/guest-room to go greet him.

Just seeing a man that wanted him dead brought some violent tendencies into to Magna’s mind; it also returned memories of his torturous morning trip, and now the boy _really_ wanted to get yankee on someone’s ass. Fitting the quill pen left his hand cramped for hours, and it all came out of pocket, so he was flat broke now. 

It was the perfect recipe for truculence.

“You know, I’m really not s’posed to be fighting anyone by myself, but…” his mouth curved up in a giant serial-killer smile, “I won’t tell the guard outside if you fight me without yer’ magic.”

“The _only_ reason I’m so deep in witch territory is because I haven’t used a single spell so far.” The hooded man said, visibly exasperated, “Do you have any idea how tough it was to climb this tower without an ounce of magic?”

“Eh, doesn’t sound that hard. I mean, you had rope, right?”

“Such impudence! I have the Diamond Kingdom’s finest sciences with me, and I’ve trained my body _far_ past that of my fellow infiltrators!”

“Trained your body like this?” Magna asked as he lifted up his pajama shirt, showing the assassin the rock-hard abdominal muscles underneath.

“What the dink?!” The Diamond agent swore vulgarly, a blush of either bewilderment or titillation on his face. “But you’re just a diplomat!”

“Ah, so you bozos haven’t heard I’m a magic knight.” “Didn’t ya’ see my manly scars? I’ve been in a lotta fights.”

“Our intel isn’t _that_ bad. You, Magna Swing are a bottom rank loser from the Black Bulls— the loser squad.” The assassin said as he primed the rifle in his hands.

“Hey! Whatt’ya mean ‘loser’!?” 

“You know exactly what I mean. When we researched you, we couldn’t find _anything_ in the papers? It’s almost like you don’t even exist.” The long-haired Diamond mage taunted, even as he grew angrier with his target, “I don’t know how you got abs, but you’re a loser even among losers! Killing _you_ won’t be a problem at all!”

The ambassador took the second bullet right in his left arm; stunned by his old insecurities, Magna hadn’t even attempted to dodge. Instead, he just seethed and took it without a single twitch of his muscles. 

The assassin grinned at a successful shot, but by the time he had blinked once, the rifle was missing from his hands. To make matters worse, Magna was not where he’d been standing second ago either.

The pretty boy murderer scanned frantically around himself for the missing ambassador, seeing his target nowhere, but hearing the words, “Over here, bitch.” a moment too late.

With his opponent’s own gun drawn back like a baseball bat, and a murderous smile on his face, Magna cracked the other mage into the next century; smacking him so hard he folded in half.

‘Jack’* as Magna would now call the assassin slammed into the stone wall with a cracking sound, rebounded off of the masonry from the sheer force of the attack, then hit the cold marble prone. The ambassador beat him in one strike, and poor Jack barely even saw him move. *Short for Jackass

“Hahaha! Yeah, baby! It’s just a shame no one saw how manly that was!” The yankee cheered, ignoring his fresh gunshot wound on a ‘disobeying direct orders’ high. _God_ this felt good to Magna, awesome enough to ignore the immense pain of getting shot. 

“Man, fightin’ only feels better when yer’ not supposed’ta! Wouldn’t ya agree, Jackass who tried ta’ kill me?”

The assassin he’d decked in one hit was lying perfectly motionless and prone on the marble, and was rude enough not to respond his target’s rhetorical question. Gosh, that guy wasn’t just impolite, he was even bleeding from the head.

Magna stared down at the gathering pool of blood on the ground with a vacant expression. When the ichor got within an inch of his shoes, the boy asked himself, “Did I just kill him? Oh… Holy crap, I just killed him.” 

“Oh yeah, this’ll be real easy to explain to the Queen—“ began his rant as Magna paced away from the crimson puddle. “Yes Miss Sangue, I just let myself get shot in the arm, and then _murdered_ some guy in a fight. Oh yes, that’s right, I _did_ just disobey your direct orders by fightin’ in the first place. Oh? You’re not gonna kill me? I’m glad you’re so understanding, your Majesty…” 

“Aaaahh!!!! Like Hell it’d go down like that!!” He screamed, knowing how deep the shit in which stood was.

_Good god, I don’t think ‘extreme action’ means anything different in old-timey. Sangue’s gonna be pissed, and then she’s gonna call off the treaty, and then a giant war will break out leaving millions dead, and then she’s gonna chop my head off!_

“Relax… freaking out won’t help you right now…” Magna spoke to himself, half-successfully quelling his overworked heart. “Wait, I’ve got it— Frida’s on watch tonight, she could answer one more question no problem.“

The man slicked back his two-tone hair and strutted up to the doors of his room, knocked to announce himself, and politely opened the door while clutching at his fresh, painful gunshot wound. 

“Hey,” he said, gritting his teeth and bleeding, “do you know how to hide a body?”

Frida was stunned into silence, aghast and going pale. Confused on at least some level by her quietness, Magna dragged his murder victim out to the tower hall to present to the bone witch. “Please, I _really_ need to get rid of this guy!”

“Why the Hell would I know how to do that!?” Came the witch’s sudden meltdown, “Do I look like I kill people _often_!?”

“Well it’s not like I had anyone else to ask! I need to find a new home for Jack’s body, and then pretend nothing ever happened!“

“Sir Wing, I just said I don’t know how to hide a body!”

“_No_ , you just asked me if you looked like you could! Big difference!”

“Shh! Keep it down you two, I’m trying to listen.” Said a voice a scant twenty feet away. Magna looked over to see Deandra, who was standing in the middle of nowhere holding a finger to her mouth in the universal sign of ‘bruh, shut up’.

“Listen to what?” Magna asked, hiding the giant bloodstain on his sleeve from the girl.

Deandra rolled her eyes and gestured around, explaining, “The accordion ghost.”

Twisting, haunting melodies wafted through the stone walls, sounding like a cascade of music that came from another world entirely. Then the tune took a hard left turn into a polka, but the artistry present was no lesser; unseen fingers dancing around the keys like angels on a pinhead. Magna and Frida got lost for a moment alongside the chamberlain, all under the trance of accordion music coming from nowhere.

As the trio let the ghostly strains fall into the background, Deandra spoke up again, asking, “So, you’re trying to hide a corpse?”

The other two idiots nodded in assent.

“Well, the funny thing about corpses is that I’ve never seen one brandishing a knife before.” 

A yelp escaped Magna when he looked down to see a glistening blade headed for his femoral artery. He slammed the assassin’s face into the floor before steel greeted flesh, and exhaled as Jack went out like a light again— the attacker’s head buried slightly in stone. Magna also screamed into a hand, because he’d just used his injured arm, and that hurt like an absolute bitch.

Sweet, sweet Dee hopped closer to the teary-eyed, swearing boy and brought her grimoire out and her palm next to his wound.

“Wait! You can’t use magic on him, or Jack! The Queen would find out in an instant.” Frida said as she moved any and all hands away from Magnus.

The huffing man agreed, backing away while he explained the situation. “Y-yeah… I, uh, disobeyed the Queen, so we need to keep _everything_ that happened tonight a secret— Argh!!” Magna tweaked something as he gestured, and felt his eyes water, ”No one can know I got injured, or that I got in a fight at all.”

“Hiding a body and patching you up without magic, huh?” Deandra asked the accordion-filled air the rhetorical question, then snapped her fingers and said, “Wait— I’ve got just the place! Follow me!”

The bird-brained blondie led her group to an alcove that’d clearly seen better days, and opened a dilapidated, discolored door while her co-conspirators dragged the ‘not corpse’ in after themselves.

“What is this place? It looks like Hell.“

“I’ve seen cleaner scrapyards…”

“It’s my room! Nobody ever, _ever_ comes in here, so Jack will be totally safe with me! Probably. I hope…” Deandra put a finger to her chin. “Actually, this is an amazing idea! It’ll be tons of fun, and I could even try my new material on him!”

“Maybe don’t torture the guy…” Magna said, suddenly quite concerned for the man that shot him.

“Eh.”

Regardless of future plans, they bound the assassin’s arms in rope, stuffed his grimoire into a small rosewood chest, and dragged him across the threshold deeper into Deandra’s run-down craphole of a room. Magna and Frida both blushed when they surveyed the state of the blonde girl’s quarters, all manner of garments were strewn about the floor and furniture— like the bras and shoes hanging off the nearest chair. 

If a tornado ripped through here, probability indicates that it would make the room tidier via accidentally blowing _something_ into the place it belonged.

A pained whimper escaped the lone man left conscious after he took another step into the disaster of a room, so Deandra sat him down before asking Frida to grab a clean stocking; comfortable to ignore Jack for the time being.

When the chamberlain leaned closer to inspect his injury, the ambassador jolted in place and shouted, “Wait, wait wait! Give me something to bite! That’s how they do it in all the adventure books! I wanna be like Akiko!” 

His eyes were notably crossed.

It seemed Magna was going manic from sleep deprivation and physical trauma, but the witches conceded the insane man had a point. They stuffed a thick chunk of wood and cloth between Magna’s teeth, and apologized with their eyes before dressing his arm.

Magna could believe how much this hurt. It was agonizing, but not moreso than what often happened to him in a fight. The thing about this situation that pissed him off so thoroughly was that he couldn’t fight back; the boy just bit down and keened in a cold sweat of pain until Deandra backed her hands away.

“You’re all good. And, uh, I guess you probably don’t want to hear a joke…” the blonde said as she offered a hand to help right the crying man; he took it without a word. After standing up from that torture, Magna grabbed the assassin with his uninjured limb and chucked him effortlessly into the corner. 

Stretching his back out, and yawning with a pained wince, he walked towards the door… unsuccessfully. The guardswoman interrupted his egress, piping up at Deandra in a tizzy when she took a second look at the rope-bound agent leaning against the corner; she voiced a concern the others didn’t share. “Hey, Wait!? You’re not seriously going to keep a _boy_ in your room, are you!?”

“Frida, that’s like, the entire plan.”

“But a boy, and a girl, alone in the same space…” the bespectacled witch began, her face turning fuchsia as her eyes darted between the long-haired assassin and the shorter woman before her, “Well, you know what a guy and a gal do when they stay in a room together!”

Both of the other conspirators stared at Frida replete with confusion, and ventured a guess from the very bottoms of their brains.

“Play board games?”

“Come up with new team attacks?”

“No! I mean like, like—” the bone witch did some emphatic, yet meaningless hand gestures, “you know!”

“Sorry Frida, you’re gonna have to give us a hint.” Deandra said, exchanging a lost gaze with her heavily injured buddy.

The flaming-hetero guard was nearly at her wit’s end, and seemed anguished by their ignorance. “How could I make it more obvious? Look, Jack’s all tied up, and maybe Deandra starts eyeing his lips… leans in a little closer to his face… she steals a fistful of his hair in her passion, and…”

The suggestive situation delineated by the spectacled girl finally hit Magna, and his face went red-hot. “Aw gross! Dee, she means you’re gonna kiss him and stuff!”

“What?” The littlest lady said, more confused now than before, “Why would I do that? I don’t even know him. Besides— I’ve never wanted to kiss _anyone_ before!”

Through even a level of pain that reduced him to a shivering mess, Magna’s ears perked up at the chamberlain’s response; he _needed_ to know what she meant, “Huh? Never? Ya’ mean like m—“

“—Deandra, people don’t just _not_ want to kiss other people!” Frida interjected, appalled enough by the blondie’s response that she’s raised her voice, “What the Hell is wrong with you!?”

The guardswoman’s pointed question made Magna shrink back, and turned his stomach even if it wasn’t aimed at him. An intense sting shot up his wounded arm at his backwards movement, and he daren’t speak up after that. He let the other folks’ conversation fade away from his mind, trying to steady his breathing by peering out the window. 

Just walking towards the stone aperture made him shudder in pain and nearly throw up, but the beams of cold light did calm his spirits for a moment. Outside, the crescent figure of the moon was dipping into the horizon, certain to steal the protective veil of night away with it.

_Crap._

“Hey, uh, can we finish up here? ‘Cause like, Dee,” Magna’s drawl had come back in full force as frigid, trauma-induced sweat mixed with dry blood to discolor his pajamas. “I’m gonna need’ya ta’ carry me back to my cage.”

“Huh? Right now?”

“Yeah, I’m about ta’ b-black out from pain…” the man managed to wheeze out before his legs gave way underneath him. His head smacked a bedpost on the way down, and Magna went limp. 

Dee and Frida dove like falcons for the ambassador’s shivering form, barely refraining screams as they watched the country’s most important dignitary whimper to himself, unconscious on the ground. 

Grabbing hold of the wounded, insensate Magnus, the witches were surprised by just how _cold_ his body had become. It was obvious now why he’d been shivering, but they at least knew the boy was going to be alright… 

Hopefully.


	12. Never Knew Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tensions can run high when a bullet has left a special place in your arm. Perhaps Magna might say more than he means to when anxiety strikes again.

“So this is the strongest stuff you could grab?”

Magna had barely budged all morning, stuck in filthy pajamas as injury kept him motionless. That damn assassin got him good. Because so far today, the most the poor ambassador had done was scrape himself to the edge of his bed so he could accept some painkillers from Deandra.

The woman in question responded to his question from the first paragraph with, “I told Hilda it was for cramps, so that’s as much pain as we can kill.“

Blushing slightly on account of knowing which specific cramps Dee meant, the pained man said, “Oooh… uh, thanks. Well, let’s see what these bad boys can do.”

He ate a couple pills and prayed they would actually let him move his left arm without caterwauling— something kind of necessary for changing out of the sleeping clothes he’d been stuck in for the last ten hours. For the time being he’d handed Deandra a chair leg and asked her to knock him out with so she could get him out of a certain blood-stained pajama shirt.

The short blonde witch tested the weight of the wooden club, giving it a practice swing at a particularly offensive patch of air, then tossed it over her shoulder with a shrug. “You strike me as someone who’s received a _lot_ of head trauma, so maybe not… besides, I can just use my magic to help you change!”

“What!? But _she’ll_ know if you do that!”

“Hey, if the Queen asks me, I can say I was just showing off! It’s not suspicious at all.” Deandra said, waving her hand to dismiss the envoy’s worries. 

“Well, if ya’ say so…” he conceded, straightening his posture slightly where he sat. 

Then, for the first time in front of Magna, the chamberlain drew out her grimoire; a dirty, thin tome whose Kingdom sigil was obscured by a layer of grime that suggested she took as poor care of the book as she did her dump of a room. A light blue aura illuminated the pages when she raised a hand, and Magna’s clothing soon followed suit. 

“Birdhouse Magic: Pigeonhole Switch!” 

Deandra cast her spell, and In one smooth, gliding motion his pajamas were pushed off his frame; replaced by his breeches and shirt without a finger touching either garment, but… the ambassador shuddered and flushed bright pink when he realized that his _underwear_ changed along with the first layer of clothing. In less lewd news, the painkillers had also kicked in while the fire mage was distracted by Deandra’s discomfiting magic, and Magna was relieved to find his wounded arm was now more a roaring ache than the debilitating, grievous pain it’d been all morning. Nice.

Standing unsteadily from his downy cot, the yankee saw Deandra grabbing his corset off the dresser and screamed, “Wait— Maybe not today!”

She looked at the little stain of blood on his arm bandage, and conceded, “Yeah… maybe not.” obviously a little crestfallen as she reached instead for the tailcoat. Moving behind him with the white jacket in hand, the chamberlain asked Magna to, “Raise the arm as high as you can. Okay, nice, just a little more and I can get this on.”

“Hey, Dee, I’ve been thinkin’ about what you said last night…” the boy began to speak, distracted by thoughts from before he’d fainted as his left arm was ushered painfully into the sleeve, “You said you never wanted to kiss anyone? Was that true?”

Tugging Magnus’ lapels into place from an odd angle, the littler mage was all too happy to answer, “Yep! I’ve never wanted my lips on another person’s mouth. Why do you ask?”

When she moved to his front to double check the fit, Magna started tracing circles on his face and asked her, “Well, I was just wondering… _is_ there something wrong with you?”

Deandra drew back slightly, offense painting her features, “No! Nothing’s wrong with me! Don’t be rude.”

“Wait! I didn’t mean it like that! I just meant…” the man’s typically pristine posture turned inward into a huddled slouch as his voice grew softer. “I hope there isn’t somethin’ wrong with _me_…”

In an instant, her gaze changed. “What do you mean?”

He looked straight at Deandra but couldn’t meet her eyes, having trouble getting the words he wanted spoken out in the open— despite how openminded they all were, Magna was afraid to tell even his fellow Black Bulls about these confused feelings, but it sounded like this woman was like him. 

After a deep, shaky breath, the young man said, “Look, I… I ain’t never kissed nobody before, or been on a date, or even held hands, and the thing is… I’ve never even _tried_ to. Not once.” Magna began trembling as he spoke, his words quivering just like the rest of his lean frame, “It’s like there’s something missing, ‘cause I never understand when my friends talk about girls, or boys, or, or sex. And I’m _scared_ of gettin’ married. I thought it would never happen, but now it’s been arranged for me, and I…”

“I don’t even know if I _can_ love people!” 

He looked down at the floor of the cage, and huddled into himself— _anything_ to be less vulnerable in front of this girl he’d only just met as he bared his most vulnerable feelings. Deandra’s face was stuck somewhere between shock and empathy as he shivered, but she didn’t back away at all.

The sting of Magna’s gunshot still pierced up his arm, but the boy was too overwrought to pay it any mind. 

“The Queen’s plotting something awful for me, but I can’t figure it out, and, and if I’m her husband… would I _ever_ be allowed to go home?” Magna was crying openly now, tears falling down in streams behind his glasses as he sobbed. “Luck, Asta, Vanessa— I miss everyone so bad already, and I never even got to say goodbye to my folks! What if my sister and dad think I’m dead? What if I actually _die_ out here? I made a promise!“

Biting back a pang of guilt, remembering all the warnings she refused to give Magnus when he’d first arrived, Deandra wiped a teardrop running down his cheek and said, “Hey now, it sounds to me like you love plenty of people. And I’m sure you’re going to be fine. The Witch Queen doesn’t want you getting hurt— that’s the whole reason we’re hiding, isn’t it?”

Teary-eyed and breathing like he’d just been punched in the chest, Magna looked more defeated than the chamberlain knew was possible. Turning away from her to hide his reddened face, the man let out his hushed reply, “Dee, I _know_ there’s ways to hurt people so the bruises don’t show… and I still gotta get ready… and I’m real sorry for dumpin’ all that on you…” 

Laying a hand on his shoulder as gently as a hummingbird, Deandra let her voice quiet down until it was a match for the man’s hiccuped sobs. When he stopped shaking, the chamberlain spoke, “Hey, how about a joke? To help get your mind off your inevitable loveless political marriage?”

As Magna skulked, trying to fit his ascot with only one hand, he mumbled out, “That’d be nice…”

“Oh. That’s too bad…” the blonde witch said in reply, looking hurt by the declination she hadn’t received, ”I had a really good one this time, but I understand if you don’t wanna hear it.”

“What? I said ‘yes’.” 

“Did you really? I mean, if you don’t, you can always say no.”

“But I said ‘_yes_’!”

“Seriously? But you looked like you wanted to hear a joke.”

Grinding his teeth, he reiterated, “Deandra. I said ‘_yes_’.”

The girl looked lost. “So you… don’t?”

At that, Magna exploded. “I _do_, goddamnit!! Just tell me the freakin’ joke already!!”

“Gotcha! You look _so_ mad right now!” Deandra cackled, teardrops leaking from her laughter, “Hahaha! You’re all like, ‘goddamnit’, and ‘argh’!”

Magna caught himself being absolutely pissed in the mirror, which quickly turned into a half-cocked smile when he realized he’d been had. “Dee, you little shitbag! Was there ever a joke?”

With a single finger pressed coyly into her cheek, the woman sang, “Nope~”

“Well I’m gonna _get_ you for that later, you beautiful ass!” The yankee said between laughter as he wiped the tears off his grinning face. The pair of idiots giggled and play-slapped at each other until a mighty peal tore through the tower’s stone walls.

“Ah, the ear splitting pain of the 12 o’ clock bell.” Deandra said, clearly unperturbed by the volume.

Magna on the other hand, was perturbed to the highest degree by the ringing. “Wait, is it 12 o’ clock already? Aw, crap— I’m gonna be late!” He shouted and was correct; this very afternoon the man was to gather his documents for the treaty and sit down with the Witch Queen for a proper writing session. At Noon o’ clock, _sharp_.

Deandra could hardly believe the whirlwind Magnus kicked up gathering the disparate scraps of parchment he’d trashed the night before. With a custom quill in his jacket pocket, and a messy bundle of documents between his arms, the ambassador bolted out the tower door. 

After several moments in which the witch was left alone to mismatch all of his socks, the man poked his head back in the threshold and said, “Wait— one more thing, Dee!”

“Huh?” She huh-ed, making a damn good attempt to hide the drawers she was rearranging, “W-what is it, Magnus?”

The man’s face went soft, and with all the sincerity he could express, he told Deandra, “Thanks. I really needed a joke like that. It’s nice to meet someone else like me, and… I’m proud to call you my friend.”

“Likewise, Dude. I seriously thought I was alone for a while there.” She said, her expression mellowing alongside his. “You’re the first person I’ve heard agree with me on kisses. It’s nice.”

“Yeah, I’m still scared, but it’s good to know I’ve got somebody in my corner… and you know what? I’m gonna get to know the Queen better, see if she’s as nice as, wait!?— The Queen!?” 

Suddenly, the noon bell rang again, and Magna whipped around to sprint away, cutting the moment short as he screamed, “Triple crap! Sorry Dee! Gotta hurry! I owe ya’ one, but I need to scram!”

When the boy was gone from the tower Deandra chuckled wistfully and said, “Ha, we’re no-kiss sisters.”

————————————

The run over to the office took longer than Magna thought it might, and he was nearly twelve minutes behind schedule by the time he’d arrived at the Witch Queen’s elongated draft table. And the boy was sweating bullets from panic in addition to exertion and pain when he reached for the back of a random open chair, but grit his teeth and opted resolutely for the closest seat to his betrothed. 

_Calm down already. You’re gonna marry this lady, Magna, there’s no reason to be afraid… as long as she doesn’t notice that you disobeyed her direct orders and got yourself shot, she almost definitely won’t chop your head off. Just be nice and polite, and ask her about herself._

As he looked across the table, the man saw Sangue sitting as though she’d only recently arrived herself, and it was hard from him to gauge whether she was perturbed by her envoy’s tardiness as she glared murderous daggers at him. Honestly, there was no way to know with this permanently glowering monarch. 

After Magna’d settled his butt into the chair, the Queen slid half of her well-organized documents across the wooden desk. “Review these.” She said with an unreadably neutral expression, which for all Magna knew, was intended to be a smile.

Thanking heaven that he’d been shot in the left arm when he picked up the papers with his dominant right hand, Magna poured over the listed concessions and clauses; struggling to wrap his head around the flowery, technical language Sangue had put to page. 

“This is… a lot less specific than what I wrote.” Was all his idiot brain could muster insofar as words were concerned.

“Like I’ve said, boy, it’s a simple draft. You’re fully intended to call back to your home Kingdom to help iron out any errant details, but,” the lady spoke with her taloned fingers steepled, possibly out of habit, “for now, we discuss the broader terms of my treaty.“

“Got it.” Magna replied, hoping he could fumble through this with what limited instruction he’d been given on the subject. Then, even the punkish dandy winced as he told _the_ goddamn Witch Queen, “And don’t call me ‘boy’.”

Cursing himself out silently for giving Sangue more back talk after deciding he’d get to know her, the ambassador looked up to see the regal woman _not_ scowling at him.

“Noted, fiancé.” She said, eyebrows quirked ever so slightly at the impudent knight sitting across from her. “Let’s begin with trade policies, and work from there.”

For the three hours following their terse exchange, writing went far better than Magna could’ve imagined, but just being in the same room as the Witch Queen set his every hair on end. Even if nothing she said nor motioned towards him carried an iota of ill will, her very demeanor felt like staring down the barrel of a gun. That woman was like a predator, or a skilled poker player— always keeping her intentions hidden, and always letting her vaguest movements read like threats. It didn’t matter how hard he tried, Magna couldn’t relax around her, let alone shoot her a personal question. Especially not now that his painkillers were wearing off.

And on the table’s opposite side, the pink-haired matriarch cursed inwardly, as she still couldn’t unearth the proper words to pry into her hostage’s home life. Political double talk, orders, and insults were silvered on her tongue, but a regular conversation starter seemed so… maladroit in comparison. It wasn’t like she had any friends to practice talking with, so she came up blank trying to find some way to probe into the spy’s past, and instead just _glared_ at Magnus; zeroing in on him with narrowed eyes.

The yankee, of course sat and sweltered like a wounded elk in wolf territory while this terrifying woman stared bloody murder at him. Swallowing the lump in his throat as quietly as he could manage while he perspired in pain and fear, Magna did the impossible and matched her gaze; looking into her frigid blue irises with equal intensity despite the shake in his legs.

Sangue’s eyes dilated, surprised enough by his gaze that she spoke without thinking; and although it was intended to be a question, the rose-haired witch didn’t pose a query when she stated, “You were a magic knight.”

With an eyebrow quirked at the non-question, and his heart threatening to pound out of his rib cage, Magna answered her by asking, “Yes?”

“You should meet with my knights. That is, my guards.” The Queen tripped over her words, but didn’t look perturbed in the slightest. Her chest constricting like it was caught in a vise as she attempted to be casual, Sangue let more words tumble adroitly forth, “I overheard that you didn’t find yestermorn’s excursion… pleasurable. Something about hatred, cramps, and crying?”

Embarrassed and scared was always a dreadful combination of emotions, and Magna raised his lettered parchment to hide the deep, deep blush gathering on his cheeks. “Oh. So you heard about that…” 

He exhaled an abashed ‘noooo’ well beneath hearing, before backpedaling to his fiancée that, “It wasn’t _that_ bad, I enjoyed myself when, uh, umm, when—”

“—Nonsense. I forgot how hard quill fittings can be on people with scant mana. I wanted for you to have a good, safe jaunt out and it sounds like all you got was a severe hand cramp. Why, you’re flinching even now.”

“Oh, uh, am I?” Magna asked, perfectly aware he was flinching in a pain unrelated to any inking instruments. His heart was thumping like an overclocked engine, and he was desperate to escape this situation as soon as he could.

“Yes. And you’re sweating like it isn’t mid-spring, almost as if you’re in _fell_ pain.” Sangue realized she was leaning in towards the ambassador, and reeled it back in as she returned to her point (and also right before Magna fainted from her intensity). “So I was thinking that perhaps today, a constitutional with my women would be a break closer to your aesthetic. They ‘play cards’, ‘wrestle arms’ and ‘kick buttocks’ down at the guard station, and I’d say you should join them for a spell.”

“Really!? Tha—” He shouted, but caught his excitement by coughing into a fist; having his own question for the Queen, ”That sounds great, but is it okay for me to spend so much time off work? I mean, we’re not finished writing yet…” 

“It’ll be a mere break. There’ll be duties for you to perform after you arrive, so don’t worry about feeling like some common wastrel. I can finish this draft myself, even.” The Queen placed a claw by her blue lipstick as she got lost in thought for a moment. “Actually, the time for _her_ to reconnoiter is scarcely an hour out, so you’d best hurry if you want any respite at all. And please, enjoy yourself.“

“Thanks! I’ll be fast!” Magna exclaimed, giving Miss Sangue a bright, sunny smile while he stood from his seat. Not knowing how one was supposed to touch a royal, the excitable man wrapped the Witch Queen up in a hug and told his stony-faced bride to be, “You’re the best!” 

He held on for a couple seconds longer than he wanted to—being stuck in an honestly excruciating position —before breaking the embrace and leaving her office. 

Once after the ambassador let go of her and had made his complete egress, Sangue grabbed the bottle of Merlot she’d hidden under table, and took a giant swig from the thing; praying the libation would calm her frazzled nerves, or at least the horrid tingling sensation around her shoulders. That bastard just broke her one month stretch of not being touched.

Why, in her power seizing gambit, did she have to deal with a _man_? Let alone a man wearing such obscenely tight pants. Despite the knight being well absent, the mental image of Magnus’ snugly-clothed backside drove the Witch Queen to tip the bottle up again.

And she still didn’t know his stupid backstory.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please, leave a comment if the mean author hurt you.


	13. The Darlings of Lumberland

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things pick up exactly where they left off last chapter, with Magna given a brief respite by her majesty. The yankee will exploit this opportunity for all he can, and who’s about to blame him?

Near the castle walls, and five hundred yards away from the Witch Queen, a man whose ass was currently being thought about climbed toward the Guard station; wading through none of the usual mists that filled the Forest’s canopy after they’d dissipated in the harsh afternoon sun. 

Being situated on the outskirts of her Majesty’s castle, and part of the same massive tree, Magna had gotten away with racing to this destination alone after being dismissed by Sangue, which he was thankful for— any longer in that office with her and he would’ve blown his gunshot’s cover for sure. Even now the ambassador was perspiring heavily, and more from the full, returning pain of his wound than any exertion from the run over. With a wince and a whimper, Magna leant against the building’s exterior and ate another painkiller— desperately hoping it would last longer than his last dose. He wondered why these things were barely taking the edge off if they were for ‘_that_’ kind of cramp, because like, didn’t those hurt like all Hell? His arm still felt like it was filled with pissed-off hornets.

Either way, he just prayed he’d be able to enjoy this break when he walked through the stone-and-birch archways that made up the Guards’ base; venturing lost in circles until the sounds of revelry drew him toward, and then into a leisure chamber right next to the entrance. The rec room shifted away from Magna in a single mass as he entered, impolite stares abound; the guards within evidently unnerved by him like he was by Miss Sangue. And again with the cautious, battle-ready postures, acting like he was somebody important as he adjusted his ascot.

It was an unsettling feeling to command so much attention, but upon further consideration, the fire mage from Podunk-Ass-Nowhere wasn’t faking at his dignitary status; despite his peasanthood, Magna realized that he _was_ in fact important now. Which was a deeply disconcerting thought. 

But also an empowering one…

Going on what we in the industry know as a ‘power trip’, the Clover ambassador decided it was time to start screwing with these unfortunate soldiers. Snapping his posture to be somehow more bolt-upright than he’d kept his spine on the trip over, Magna shot his best attempt at a withering glare at some young woman whose knees were already knocking together like a Newton’s cradle. The poor lady fell back with a quiet shriek as this dour, scar-faced man leaned in to scare her.

The ambassador smiled like the asshole he was at her reaction, and sent another witch into palpitations by extending his rough, calloused hand out for a shake. She accepted the greeting in kind, but looked like she was about to keel over as sweat gushed from her pores. A man wearing a pointed hat cowered away before Magna could make eye contact, which to the yankee was absolutely hilarious. He beamed like a serial killer, which sent more people either retreating away, or putting on their bravest faces while they trembled in place.

God, this punk almost forgot how much fun being the scariest one in the room was— seeing as how The Witch Queen was kind of unbeatable competition in that regard. Although, come to think of it, another person who’d been making any amount of fear mongering nigh-on-impossible was six and a half feet of rock hard muscle, replica school uniform, and punch ghost. 

Now that he’d given it more thought, Magna hadn’t yet forgiven that general for almost _murdering_ him for shits and giggles.

Also, the Boo lady in question was in the rec room right now; Magna was looking right at her massive silhouette, right at this exact moment. She was standing as far away from the building’s center as she could, huddled in the corner and perfectly silent. Though Magna figured that none of the Witch Generals were people-persons (or would that be people-people?) the massive witch actually seemed to be engaged in a one-sided conversation with somebody half her width. 

And she was losing. 

A closer inspection during which Magna left his frightened victims alone revealed a slight, gangly woman wrapped in a lab coat who was looking up at Boo with sparkles in her eyes. As the man with two-toned hair stalked over, he caught sight of matching wedding bands on the duo’s hands, and thought a little vengeance could be had on the massive General. Jaunting up to the smaller woman—who appeared to have a minimum of three knees per leg—he caught the pair’s attention with an unjustifiably polite wave.

“Goodness gracious, General Boo? It is such a pleasant surprise meeting you here.” Magna said in a cloying, utterly unctuous tone; teasing the lady who beat him within an inch of his life with greasy politeness, “How’ve you been today? Have ya’ almost murdered anybody else lately? Like I said Boo, it’s a _pleasure_ just to see you.”

The tacit Goliath of a woman just grunted, trying to pretend the man bothering her was a mirage, or some kind of rare, obnoxious species of bird. When she blinked, the ambassador was several feet closer.

“And who is this lovely lady with you?“ Magna powered on, casting an inquisitive gaze at the woman hanging off Boo’s giant arms; pleading the question with innocent doe eyes. “Wait, don’t tell me— is this wonderful wittle woman here your spouse?”

Before any words could escape the bizarre general’s mouth, her wobbly arm candy gave the envoy an enthusiastic answer, “Yup! I’m this massive glass of water’s darling wife! We’re Boo and Hilda Radley— and aren’t we just the cutest?”

An evil smile crept across the yankee’s already sinister features at Hilda’s words, and he asked the general, “Wait a second, your name is ‘_Boo Radley_’?” 

Laughter was being held within Magna like his mouth was a broken dam, and when the boy raised a hand to add something to his unanswered first question, he totally lost it. “Ppbfft! _Boo Radley_! Hahaha! Oh, that’s rich!! Hahaha!”

Turning away with her scientist wife holding onto a tree trunk-like arm, ‘Boo Radley’ tried to hide a gathering blush under her hat’s brim. “Good grief, Hilda, he could’ve _never_ found out…” 

Soldiers who’d crowded around the little scene when they heard Boo speak for the first time in hours were laughing as loud as they could without getting their skulls crushed. 

“Aww, come on Boo, your name is so cute though~” Hilda said to the pink-faced woman, teasing her further. The first Witch General then plucked up her giggling spouse in the same way one would pick up a cardboard cutout, and fled the building—and that odious little ambassador—as fast as she possibly could without sprinting.

“Yare yare daze. You’re all a buncha’ rat bastards…” was a fading imprecation at the edge of Magna’s hearing when the other people in the room agreed on his ‘it’s funny when it isn’t me’ philosophy of mean jokes by laughing along with the asshole-ish man.

Until, that is, he decided to make yet more witches his target. Sidling up to a few people who stopped chuckling when they realized he’d gotten close, Magna swiped a deck of playing cards off their table and gave an invitation to game, “Hey, how about we play some cards? Have a little fun, maybe relax with some poker. But I warn you… I _don’t_ lose.”

The guards he challenged looked to each other with nerves and sweat dripping into their shirt collars, but mustered all their gumption together and accepted the ambassador’s game. 

After losing twelve consecutive hands, Magna was in the hole rather than simply flat broke. He moaned in utter defeat as the other players tried calculating how much he’d lost—getting dangerously close to the conclusion that the game could retroactively be considered strip poker—but, just then, the sound of a door slamming open saved his life.

“Hey everybody! I’m here~!” Came a squeaky, excitable voice from the threshold. “I heard the ambassador’s in the house? Let me at ‘em!”

Magna’s card opponents immediately forgot their equations, and leapt from their chairs to greet the newcomer with a screech, “General! You’re back!“

“The clown! The clown!!”

“Pierrette makes her grand return!”

Putting as much distance between himself and the cursed poker table as he could, Magna joined everyone else in welcoming his savior; examining the witchy figure in the doorway, he saw that the woman was blue-haired, barely exceeded five feet in height, and looked like she was wearing clown makeup. Magna was practically certain she wasn’t in a jester’s face paint, because that would be a ridiculous thing for a general to do— the Queen at least had to have laws against _that_, right? She was definitely wearing the trademark pointy hat, though that was offset by her poofy, polka dotted sleeves. In any case, she commanded the absolute respect of her fellow witches.

The clown-esque General waded through the crowds toward Magna with honks marking each footstep, and extended an arm in greeting. Her smile was stuck somewhere between guileless and diabolical, and the boy couldn’t believe his eyes. With more trepidation than could be justified when reaching inside a wasp’s nest, the fire mage reached out to meet her waiting hand. 

“HelloMr.AmbassadorWingSirMyname’sPierrette!” The blue-haired woman said in one mangled word as she shook his entire arm like a spaghetti noodle. “Ahem, uh, I’m Pierrette, the third Witch General, and master of balance magic. I specialize in parties both birthday _and_ war!”

“Umm… Hi.” Was all Magna could respond with, stuck in utter disbelief as this literal clown dragged him to the door by the shaken hand she hadn’t yet let go of. When his head collided with a stone archway, the yankee’s stalling mind started up again, “Wait a sec— what’s happening!?”

“The Witch Queen says we’re gonna reconnoiter together! How exciting!” The shorter woman shouted as she helped right Magna. And Pierrette, in her exuberance, also gave him a love tap on his left arm, which sent the princely boy into a state of agony so exquisite that it could only be expressed by laughing _while_ crying; which the witch didn’t seem to catch as she strutted down the branch in front of him. 

Magna stumbled after the unknowingly torturous clown in a haze, and tried hiding the sheer volume of tears moving down his cheek. They’d walked halfway down the wooden stairwell when Magna was nagged by a question that sent his mind far enough away from the pain for him to slow the waterworks. 

“Wait, wait wait up.” He said until the blue-haired girl turnt ‘round. As her face prepared itself for a question, the ambassador asked her, “So, what does ‘reconnoiter’ mean, and why am I allowed to do it?”

“You know how the Queen uses all those weird old -timey words, and people have trouble knowing what she means?”

With a shudder, and a brief flashback to his status as a ‘hostage’ the young man said, “Yep.”

“Well, this time she’s just using the wrong word.” Pierrette honked a horn—presumably for emphasis—then pointed to the birch road, saying, “Reconnoiter is a tactical military search, but… We’re just gonna mosey on over to the border to check out some fancy peeps, say ‘howdy’, and then scram.”

“Oh.” Magna said, stepping back into her rhythm in understanding, “Heheh, mosey.”

The freakish pair walked through the market atop the thick branches that comprised the Forest paths, winding past treehouses and potion shops; taking in all the lovely or odious smells that wafted up from the witches’ pockets of commerce. It was so much easier to check out their stalls and hawkers without a personal phalanx blocking his view, and suddenly, the scar-faced ambassador had another little question vexing him. How was this tiny, goofy witch so powerful that she could accompany him alone?

“Okay, so I know better than to judge a grimoire by its cover, but what does ‘balance magic’ do? How’s a clown become a General?”

Pierrette touched a gloved finger to her white-painted chin, and looked like she was searching for the appropriate words; after nary three seconds pondering, the General said, “Hmm… balance magic? Let’s see… it’s like, uh, umm, you know what? It’d be a lot easier to just show you. Do you have a knife, or a pin on you?”

Her ascot-clad charge looked dejectedly down at his boots, and said, “I’m not allowed to touch any sharp objects.”

“Really? Then what are these?” Pierrette asked as she yoinked a pair of bladed paraphernalia from behind Magna’s ears. 

“Whoa! You had those in your sleeves this whole time?”

“Aw come on!” She whined, ”You’re _supposed_ to be surprised!”

“Sorry! I just hang out with a guy made of lightning!” He said, throwing both hands up in defense of his outburst.

“Oh well, at least it wasn’t my real trick. Watch _this_.” The clownish witch said as she stuck her knife a quarter-inch into the tree branch that made up the street. She then balanced a pin atop its handle, and so far, Magna was intrigued yet confused. What she did next f**ked him up for life. Lining up her left boot with the pin’s head, the lady slowly rose up so that she was standing on _only_ the stacked blades— as if they were a solid, stable platform. From her impossible position on the two pointy objects, she summoned a baton from her grimoire and placed it on the tip of her red nose so it was pointed straight skyward.

As Magna’s jaw unintentionally slacked open, the woman grinned, pride painting her painted features at the audience response. “Cool, right? Now push me over! Come on, push me over!”

Feeling nervous about it, but with no inclination to spoil Pierrette’s spectacle, the yankee put one hand on her shoulder and pressed forward— already bracing himself for the crash that was sure to follow. But the littlest general _didn’t_ fall over, and even when she’d hit a full ninety degree angle, her foot stayed resolutely on the pinhead.

“Balance magic.” She said, making finger-guns at a gawking Magna from her horizontal perch. “Great for party tricks; great for kickin’ ass.”

She hand-sprung backwards off the blade stack, which fell over as soon as her boot left their surface, and caught her baton on her nose again, managing to wow Ambassador Wing so thoroughly that he just stopped moving; frozen in space, his mouth agape, and his spectacles off-kilter. 

“I’m glad you liked my show, now let’s get moving! Back to work!”

Waving a hand in front of his face proved fruitless in altering the man’s stunned expression, as did snapping an inch from his glasses, but the witch needed him to move.

“Come on, Magnus! It’s time to do your job!” Pierrette shouted before dragging her motionless charge by the ascot. “We’re right next to the border now— so get ready to greet the Diamond Kingdom’s diplomats!”

With a single blink, Magna began to move again. He then adjusted his spectacles, and screamed. “The _Who!?_”

——————————————————-

Several guards ushered Magna back into the castle after his busy, daylong excursions, and they gradually dispersed from around him the deeper they ventured. Once the man hadn’t a soul crowding around in their human phalanx, he knew where he wanted to visit before bed.

Swallowing a lump he didn’t know was in his throat, Magna knocked on a beautiful mahogany door. After a few seconds without any response from within, he creaked the barrier open as politely as he could. Inside the austere office, Magna saw the Witch Queen stretching and yawning at her personal desk; papers scattered across its surface in a meticulous array.

The man almost excused himself without a word, embarrassed to catch her busied like this, but stood his ground when he noticed that she’d already noticed him. Piercing blue eyes like those of wolves carved into Magna, and it took everything he had not to flee from the Queen’s gaze. He focused on not letting his legs wobble, and spoke up. 

“Hello, Sangue, I’m… I’m sorry I didn’t see you last night, I was just…” the ambassador juggled a couple phrases like ‘scared’ or ‘frightened’ around in his head but decided on, “Acting childish.” Taking a step closer to the steely-eyed woman he was fated to marry, Magna said, “You seem great, and I’d love to get to know you better, but I can’t do that if I’m avoidin’ you. So I, uh, guess I wanted to see you again before bed.”

“Really?” Her eyebrows raised at his words, seemingly with genuine surprise, “I’m actually rather pleased to hear you say that.” 

The Queen adjusted the ridiculously wide brim of her hat as she stood up and made her way across the study to Magnus, whose pulse quickened as she stalked near. Once the two were scarcely a foot apart, she continued quite sincerely, “I’d like to know you better too, Magnus. There’s a very small list of people I could claim to know well, and I want you on it. Although… that should wait until _after_ we’ve had some sleep.”

It could’ve been his eyes playing tricks on him, but Magna swore he saw the Queen smiling. And unless it were further delusion, he thought Miss Sangue was pretty darn cute when she smiled. A hint of emotion that even the yankee could recognize was shining through the Queen’s façade; the corners of her lips raised ever so slightly as she said, “Goodnight, Magnus.”

His fear finally abating in at the sight of her being honest, Magna smiled right back at her and said, “Goodnight, fiancée.” Unaware of just how happy his own expression made him look. His face was radiating sunshine and rainbows despite the tiredness that was sinking in. He needed sleep, and began heading out for some.

“Wait, one more thing.” The man heard Sangue say as he turned the handle of her office door; he tried looking back at her, but the motion was stopped halfway by the Queen giving him a big kiss on the cheek. Smooth lips grazed Magna’s skin ever so gently, and his face heated up like molten goddamn _lava_. 

“Have pleasant dreams, Magnus.” She ordered, staring deep into his gray eyes.

The bashful man couldn’t speak except for a curt whimper as he bolted out the door; heart thumping uncontrollably in his bone-dry throat. He prayed it wasn’t too horribly offensive to just run away, but he needed to get like, a million feet from everybody right now. Or at least to bed. 

Yeah, sleep would be good.

Magna actually had to make a quick stop to panic on the trip back to his guest room/cage/tower, thinking about how few times his nerves had been so frazzled before. That lady didn’t even need to touch him to make his every hair stand on end, and then she freaking _kissed_ him. Walking without his knees going limp had become a struggle, and his cheek kept buzzing like an angry bee, but he’d be lying to himself if he said that it didn’t feel kinda neat.

Once at his destination in the tower, he found Deandra waiting by his nightstand; flipping through the pages of the children’s book Luck had gifted him. Looking up from the little tome as Magna’s bootsteps clicked across the misshapen, warped marble, the witch greeted him with a cartoonishly exaggerated wave. When he drew close, she’d calmed down enough to ask him, “So… how’s your day been? I’ve just been sitting here since twelve P.M.”

“Apart from the crippling pain, I’m actually feeling pretty great.” Magna replied as Deandra prepared her clothes changing spell. Scratching at an itch-less part of his handsome face while thaumaturgy glowed around them, Magna followed up, “I know I was terrified this morning, and maybe I still am, but… if it’s for everyone back home, I don’t think marrying the Queen’d be too bad.”

“Aww, that’s nice to hear! I’d ask what made you decide she wasn’t scary, but I gotta go right now! Bye!”

“Wait! Don’tchya’ wanna stay a little longer?” The convalescent man asked, trying not to seem desperate, “I think that accordion ghost might play again soon.”

“Sorry, but I must check on Jackass again. It is an awful lot of work to maintain a secret when that secret is a person. Farewell, Magnus.” Deandra said, employing her uncharacteristic serious tone for the first time in a while. After a second’s pause wherein she regained her goofy demeanor, the small woman ran away from her charge sing-songing, “Bye-bye~! Don’t let the assassins make you die~!”

Watching the chipper chamberlain wave enthusiastically goodnight at the exit to the chamber, Magna crawled into his bed, and under the covers; wishing he had somebody to talk to. He cursed silently to himself as he got back up to put his glasses on the nightstand, but he was swearing for different reasons entirely when a minor scale danced through the walls. That ghost played damn beautiful music. 

At least Deandra could listen to it while she went ahead and covered up Magna’s latest mistake. It still felt bad though, going straight to bed when your partner in crime had to do all the heavy lifting. Although… that was probably for the best, because falling asleep with his arm like this was going to be _excruciating_. Not to mention the memory of a kiss throwing his mind and guts into disarray.

The young mage strained, wheezed and tossed from pain while those gorgeous melodies permeated the castle tower. The accordion’s deft strains barely served as a distraction from the ache stabbing up his wounded arm, and it wasn’t enough for the injured boy to rest until a new song began— one gentler, and far more soothing than the others. 

With a simple melody, and a slow waltz rhythm, this particular piece captivated his complete attention. Magna couldn’t put his finger on exactly why until the music reached its chorus, when his heart twisted itself into a knot.

_This is the lullaby dad used to sing._

A wave of nostalgia crashed into him as each accordion note mirrored one from his childhood. Back in the day, whenever Magna had trouble sleeping from crying, or bruises, or hunger, or whatever else might bother a peasant boy, his old man would stay awake with him until he could rest easy— even if it took till the break of day.

Tears pooled in the corner of Magna’s eyes, but he was smiling. All the pain in his arm was a distant memory as he was cradled in the sounds of his father’s lullaby. Magna hadn’t actually heard the song in years, but its familiar melody made this cage feel like a home. 

For one beautiful moment in time, he was with his family, curled up by the fire back in Rayaka village, and _nothing_—no amount of pain or dread—could take that warm feeling away from him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was originally part of the previous chapter, but they got a little out of hand, so I split them up. Hopefully it still reads properly!


	14. No!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Witch Queen has finally hatched a plan to make her guest talk. But can Magna survive what his fiancée has in store? Deandra can only help him so much…

The Witch Queen had spent close to an hour last night trying to wipe the kiss she’d given Magnus off her lips; spitting, scrubbing, and regretting the display of affection with all the depth of an ocean trench. She hadn’t fallen asleep until the wee hours of the morning, and was in quite a mood after missing her routine view of daybreak’s beautiful mists. Not necessarily a bad mood per se, but Sangue was more out of sorts than she’d been in _months_.

No man so intelligent as to get the drop on her finest General could possibly be foolish enough to talk back to the Queen herself, so that left that the ambassador was simply _fearless_ enough to do so. He was cagey, astute, winsome and above all else _vexing_. No matter what occurred, nor what tactics she used to coax or frighten him, Magnus was resolute and unshakable. 

Until just last night. After that kiss.

The Queen of Witches—the world’s most powerful woman—didn’t like it in the slightest, but it seemed charming the ambassador via seduction could well be the secret to making him pliant. Again, she despised the notion, but she’d exhausted all her other options by this point. And while all that sounded like it upset her, the reason she wasn’t necessarily in an outright _bad_ mood was that it had given something grand to look forward to.

Sangue applied her makeup with extra care to detail, scrutinizing the angle of lipstick above her mouth before laying down her favorite shade of blue, and making certain her teardrops were symmetrical as possible. It was a special event today, after all: The Witch Queen had finally made preparations to interrogate her hostage. And on cloud nine she was, for the ideal avenue of extracting everything she could fancy to know about the cute spy was right in her grasp— it would be almost too easy. In the privacy of her chambers, she let her lips curl into a sadistic smile, and with that same privacy, she changed into the finest battle gown in her collection.

She adjusted her bodice, picked out a matching bolero, and generally scrutinized the fit in a full-length mirror; appreciating the way her style looked when paired with a murderous grin. She was both alluring and terrifying, and wouldn’t have it any other way. Without the help of any servants, Sangue had preened herself down the the finest detail, and departed her chambers the looking same exact way she did every day. It took every iota of willpower within her not to cackle while she stalked through her castle with nary a care in the world; on the hunt for that winsome little man so she could squeeze the confessions she needed out of him.

Though her search within her halls took longer than expected, to the witchy woman it was more like building up her expectations than an annoyance. Then, in the middle of an empty chamber, Sangue caught sight of a white tailcoat, wide shoulders, two-tone hair, and tight breeches. 

“Ah, _there_ you are Magnus.” She said, settling her long, razor like nails on the lone man’s shoulder. “It’s time for your interrogation.”

——————————————

The only reason Magna didn’t scream when those talons ensnared him, is that he was so thoroughly frightened by the Queen’s grasp he couldn’t breathe. An attempt was made to shriek, but it got caught long before he could vocalize it. In breathless horror, the young man wondered what he could have possibly done wrong today. And why did she have to show up _right_ after he’d stopped working?

He turned around to face his hostess, as quickly as his dread would allow, but didn’t find Sangue upset in the slightest when he met her eyes. Terror abated into simple fear when Magna felt her claws slacken and withdraw, and he hoped his heart wasn’t loud enough to hear.

“We’re going out.” The Queen said, the strained beginnings of a smile upon her visage.

Thinking for sure he was about to be chewed out for misfiling a document, or improperly scheduling a guest’s luncheon, that sure threw the yankee for a loop. “Huh? We’re ‘going out’ for an interrogation?” Magna asked as his pulse slowed down a little more.

“I just figured that this whole mess could occur on a date.” The Witch explained, her face scrunching up in a vague approximation of a grin. ”Aren’t dates all the rage amongst people who are to become espoused these days? I already said I’d like to know my own fiancé better.”

“Yes! They are!” Magna shouted, inexplicably excited for the impending event, “That sounds amazing.“

“Excellent to see you’re agog about it. I’ve reserved a table at my dominion’s most opulent restaurant, so be ready in forty-five minutes.” She tapped Magna’s arms awkwardly as some form of goodbye, and egressed to leave the man to his preparations.

Magna smiled, taking out his pocket square as he watched the woman walk away, then bit down _hard_ on the handkerchief the instant she left the room. A couple of teardrops squeezed unbidden out of his lachrymal ducts, for the man found himself helpless against a returning wave of pain in his arm. Sangue had tapped him ‘there’ on his bicep. Ouch.  
Screaming as silently into the embroidered rag as possible, he rode the wretched feeling out. During the tough grit in his teeth, Magna fell to one knee, and the yankee couldn’t help but question whether he’d already gone soft by being a diplomat— he was on painkillers, and yet he kept feeling sick from the sheer volume of hurt.

Looking around to make certain nobody saw his little display of anguish, the man stood up and made his way to the tower to prepare for the impending ‘interrogation’. At no point on his walk over did the aching in his limbs stop, and he had some choice words in mind for the girl who got him the medicine.

“Holy crap, Deandra, I am in _agony_ — didn’t you say you got those pills for cramps?” The mage whined at his chamberlain, every breath heaved as pain coursed through his torn bicep, “I heard periods hurt like a freakin’ heart attack, so why is this crap wearing off so fast?!”

The shorter witch looked rather sheepish, and started poking her fingertips together in a fidget as she spoke, “Ooohh… you thought the painkillers were for _menstrual_ cramps? Sorry dude, the thing is… the actual excuse I gave the doctor was that I’ve been getting Charlie horses from all the extra work taking care of you, which is at least partially true because of how much trouble you’ve been getting into, bu—“

“—I got _shot_, and you gave me Charlie horse painkillers!? I need to go on my first date in like, thirty minutes, and! Wait…” his brain stalled for a beat, then Magna asked himself, “Did I just say ‘my first date’!? Holy Crap! I’m going on a _date_!?”

Deandra jumped back slightly, her eyes bugging out, “What? Really!? Who’re you going out with!? Wait, duh, your fiancée— Wait, a date?! Do you want your corset?”

“Hells yeah, Dee! And maybe some flowers! But most importantly…” he looked the witch directly in her eyes and drew in a deep, deep breath before saying, “I want the pain to stop goddammit.”

With her mouth squiggled into the funniest dang grimace, Deandra said, “Maybe you could take all the rest of the pills at once?”

Magna looked at the littler witch with a blank, almost pleading expression, his mouth agape while he stared and said, “Deandra…”

“You’re a genius! I’ll just eat every pill at once and become fortunate all together! Ahahaha!” 

The woman stared on in impressed horror—searching for an opportunity to reveal the suggestion was a joke—as Magnus ripped open a dresser drawer and took nearly half his medication in one go. Deandra giggled alongside her charge, the spitfire apparently having gone delirious from everything that’s gone down thus far. Even once the ambassador asked her where the nearest ‘flowers shit’ was, she could only laugh while she led him toward a patio garden.

All things considered, the young man was probably just delirious because those painkillers hadn’t kicked in yet.

——————————————

In short order, the time had arrived for a young man’s first date, and Magna was standing and waiting just as nervously as he’d always imagined this moment would make him. The trouble was that in his lifetime total of three daydreams of going out, he wasn’t shaking in fear, and he was holding hands with a very dear friend— not an emotionally distant, all-powerful tyrant that he had to create a fake persona for so he wouldn’t be murdered. But that was a rude way for Magna to describe the Witch Queen (regardless of its accuracy) and he was absolutely hyped to go on a date for the first time; doubly so because he wasn’t sure what an ‘opulent restaurant’ was. Maybe they served dishes like poker chips and caulk?

_I can’t believe I miss Luck’s cooking. I could really go for some shredded grass, or maybe a deep fried glove right about now. And where does that little bastard find his ingredients anyway? I swear he—_

His thoughts were interrupted by a quiet set of footsteps echoing off the walls, but the mage couldn’t turn to meet their source. The sheer, overwhelming force of the Witch Queen’s presence hardly helped the anxiety that’d beset him from the idea of dating; Magna tried to unclench his fists, but resigned that action as an impossibility while he waited for Sangue at the room’s far end.

She stalked up abreast the nervous man, and eyed the pink flower on his lapel with undue interest. His knees almost knocked together as her eyes drilled through him. “Is that an azalea alongside your jabot?”

“Maybe? I just liked the way this flower looks.” Magna responded, not understanding either of the operative words in his date’s question. Plucking it from his lapel, he pushed the flower closer to her, “But I picked it for you cause it matches yer’ hair.”

“That’s thoughtful, but it looks like this bloom already has a home.” The Queen said, accepting the flower but tucking it behind her date’s ear. Magna felt his face heat up more than a little as her hand brushed his face, and had to avert his eyes so she wouldn’t see him blush. She definitely heard the adorable “Thank you,” squeak he’d let out, though, and the pair fell into a tense silence while Sangue’s face fought to retain neutrality in the face of the ambassador’s bashfulness. 

Clearing her throat of nothing in particular, the Witch Queen motioned Magna toward the observation deck on the south wing of her castle.

Without further prompting, he stepped up to the balcony before her, and gazed down upon an amazing vista. Half of the entire Forest was visible from here, with birds and witches gliding across the sunlit canopy in patternless flocks, leaving him awestruck of so much. Despite having the chance to take in this view myriad times before, Magna hadn’t bothered, and boy did he regret it now. His jaw hung open as a gust whipped his hair, threatening to dislodge the flower by his glasses. It was a breathtaking view, and to be perfectly honest, in this moment he felt like a fairy tale princess. 

Uhh, he meant _prince_. Like a fairy tale prince.

The young man gazed outward in a daze until a clawed hand met the small of his back. Quite suddenly, Magna felt rude for ignoring the only person beside him on the deck, but then, as his eyes flitted to his side to greet her, the Queen’s hand pushed him clean over the balcony rail.  
He might’ve thought it was an attack if Sangue hadn’t stepped off at the same time, joining him in free fall without her composure breaking in the slightest. About sixty feet into their plummet, the couple were swept up in a wave of crows, and carried down through the mists that surrounded the castle walls; winding down to the forest floor within the talons of a squawking murder as blackness consumed his vision.

Once they’d reached the very bottom of their descent, Magna was trapped in complete silence; shivering where he stood long enough for the Queen to ask, “Whatever’s the matter, Magnus? Scared?”

“That was the most incrediblest thing ever.” He gawped, his eyes open wide, “And it hurt _so_ much less than jumping down!”

If Sangue wore glasses, she’d be looking over them like a dad reading a newspaper for emphasis as she questioned him, “What in the-? You’ve leapt off my balcony?”

“Yup! Well, um, I guess it was from the tower, but when I hit the ground I totally thought my knees were gonna break! Just like, crack! And say, can you do the awesome crow thing again? Or—” It took until the last moment for the ambassador to ebb his exuberance. “Or, uh, would you like me to fly you myself?”

“I was actually in the mood to promenade my fiancé around town, so we’re walking. You don’t mind.” She replied, commanding instead of asking. It probably ought’t’ve been one of her scarier quirks, but there was something about the Queen stating what she wanted Magna to feel that entertained him. He tried not to laugh out loud though, because his date put her mouth into a hard line as she began walking down a birchwood path into the castletown proper.

Looking to his side, Magna saw the pink-haired woman doing her best not to betray any emotions; her angular features balanced into the most neutral ‘I’m enjoying myself’ expression Magna had ever seen. Sangue’s endless endeavor to shield her emotions was bewildering to the fire mage, but he wasn’t exactly open about his own thoughts or feelings around her either— hiding even his own name from the woman he was fated to marry. The notion that he was lying to her every day twinged Magna with guilt, but he couldn’t fight the feeling that he was being deceived in turn. 

Putting focus back on the present, it was actually kind of pleasant to be with the Witch Queen without any immediate work to attend. She wasn’t the bad guy, after all; she was just an intense, frightening, all-powerful monarch who held his very life in her hands. But she was so much kinder than all those stories about her said, and kinda fun whenever her composure slipped.

Being the same height, their strides fell into rhythm alongside each other, and Magna couldn’t fight the flutter in his heart as a thought came back to him. _Whoa… this is actually a date… Are they usually this quiet? She hasn’t said anything in a while… should I like, be holding her hand? Crap, I don’t know how this is s’pposed to go at all._

With all those thoughts swirling within him, Magna looked down at her hand and felt compelled to reach out and hold it, just like a boyfriend might. Blushing and nervous, the young knight pushed closer to the Queen’s calloused fingers, and just as skin grazed skin, she screamed.

“No!” Blue eyes going wide, Sangue slapped Magna’s hand away from her own, “Do _not_ touch my hand!”

“Sorry! I just wanted to hold it.“ the boy said as he drew both arms as far away from her as possible.

“Don’t ever make that mistake again.” The Queen said, trying to look severe despite the obvious unease in her features. It was more like she was lashing out than just angry, and Magna could hear her breathing like she’d just run a mile. Looking down from her eyes to the ground, he saw a shallow, shredded chasm she’d rent straight through the branch upon which the pair stood. 

The magic was only just fading from the Witch Queen’s hands as she retreated back into herself, “I don’t like _anyone_ touching my hands. Nobody gets to touch my hands.”

Magna stepped right over the gnarled cuts in the wood back to the witch, and made her a promise. “I won’t. This’s your date too, and you deserve a great time— you can even slap me if it’ll make ya feel better!” Pointing straight to his cheek, the man gave her both a sheepish smile and a target.

“I, what?” Sangue looked at him with an expression neither person could recognize, but which resembled shock. The witch seemed to consider the offer, but averted her glare once their eyes met, saying, “Come now, Magnus, let’s go. No more tarrying.” as she turned away down the road as fast as one could without outright running.

It took a second for him to follow, as she kept a quick pace, and he was honestly impressed she could power walk in heels. More so, Magna was now resolute in showing the Queen a good time; he already screwed up once, so there was no room to do it again. Despite the tension earlier, Sangue was more talkative from that point on in their walk, and even gave her date an arm to hold while they promenaded. Nothing heavy was discussed between them on this ‘interrogation’ so far, just a collection of old jokes and stories each mage found more endearing than anyone sane should’ve.

Magna put on the widest smile he could even when the Queen’s old-timey words flew over his head; and the man was far too focused on keeping her entertained to notice the people stalking them.

—————————————

The ‘opulent’ restaurant’s interior was nothing that Magna could’ve imagined; warm candlelight danced across the walls to illuminate intricate paintings and fine furniture, a chandelier hanged on air above the dining room by some kind of subtle magic, and the aroma of flavors Magna couldn’t even name wafted out from the background. The final place he looked was his date’s face, and Magna was dumbstruck to see her expression stuck in neutral even with all the fancy shit laid out before them— she wasn’t even amazed at all.

The maître d’ cleared his throat before greeting the duo who’d entered the lobby. Magna watched the guy’s eyes burst open wide as eyes could when he looked at the fancy yankee and his date. Sangue stepped up to the lectern to say, “Reservations for one Ambassador Magnus Wing, and the Queen of all Witches.” 

That poor guy’s heart suddenly had a problem beating, but the concierge sat the two most important figures in the nation at a table in the restaurant’s center nevertheless. To this beleaguered server, what were they _but_ a collection of scowls, scars, callouses, and money?

Magna and The Witch Queen settled into their seats with sunshine in their hearts at the sight of a truly frightened restaurant worker. If there was one thing they agreed upon, it was the joy of bringing fear into the world.

Shaking like a chihuahua left outside in the snow, the maître d’ began by asking _the_ Clover ambassador and the kingdom’s freaking sovereign what they’d like for drinks.

“The second oldest Cabernet Sauvignon in your cellar for the table.” Sangue replied without so much as a glance at her menu.

Not bothering to check any lists, her date answered, “And I’d like water.”

“Water? Tell him what you actually want to drink.” The Queen commanded, her eyebrow quirked at the ridiculous potation Magnus requested. 

“But… I want to drink water.”

“Alright…” she conceded in visible revulsion, “But be certain to check the specialty dishes today, I understand they’ve acquired a remarkable ingredient recently.”

“Huh? Wait, troubadour pepper? Whoa— it’s the spiciest thing on the menu! But didn’t you ban me from eatin’ spicy foods?“

“I remember you like hot foods, I merely didn’t want you to catch your death with that trashy market curry.”

“Oh yeah, the ‘death’ curry.” He paused for a spell, “Wait, was that a joke?”

“Perhaps.” Sangue said, averting her gaze a little too quickly. With her eyes away from him, and in the menu, their orders were placed; leaving the powerful couple to stew in continuous silence.

Nobody ever told this yankee that caviar was _real_, and yet he watched as a silver tray holding disgusting fish eggs was rolled into the kitchen. Magna let his mouth hang uncouthly open whenever some item of food or furniture he thought was fake entered his field of view; dumbfounded and awed by every new fancy thing he thought were the products of book authors’ imaginations. It was every bit as wondrous as the adventures in his favorite books, but when he looked across the table at his date, her face hadn’t the faintest race of wonder. It was enough to make the young man frown.

It didn’t take the Witch Queen a second to catch the shift in his demeanor. “Don’t you like this place? It’s the most lavish restaurant in my domain.”

“Oh, no, it’s amazing! I’m really having a great time! But…” Magna glanced back to her bored eyes, “why did you take us here if _you_ don’t like it?“

Her eye twitched at his words. “Don’t say that sort of poppycock to me, I’m enjoying myself plenty.”

“But you don’t look like you’re having _fun_.” The ambassador said, twirling silverware in his hand.

“Fun? Why on earth would I be having fun right now?“

“Well, this _is_ our first date.”

“A very literal observation, what does that have to do with the interrogation I’m conducting?”

“What? You haven’t asked me a question since we left the castle…” Magna observed aloud, “Wait— would you mind if I started asking you questions?”

“That’s preposterous, I’ve never heard of a reciprocal interrogation before.”

“Well you have now! Lemme start off with something easy, like…” he tapped a few fingers against his chin, lost in simple thought, “What do you like to do for fun?”

Sangue could only quirk an eyebrow at that question insofar as facial reactions were concerned. Looking directly at the man sitting across the table, she said, “I don’t _have_ fun.”

“Huh? But everybody has fun doing something— even if they don’t wanna admit it! Like, what do you do when you’re hangin’ out with your friends?”

Narrowing her gaze the slightest bit, she said, “I don’t have ‘_friends_’. They’re unnecessary and difficult to maintain.”

Magna gasped, “Wait, you seriously don’t have any friends?”

“No, and I tire of your inane questions, _Magnus_.” The Queen replied, the sound of her gritted teeth audible across the table.

“Then you can ask me something! Go ahead! You wanted to know me better, right? I’ll tell ya anything!”

Leant back in her seat, fingers steepled and eyes wrought with thought, Sangue ruminated until she had herself a question she sought answered: “That cute scar on your forehead, tell me how you acquired it.”

Again with the refusal to ask, but Magna was hardly focused on her commanding tone, no, the ambassador was too busy shooting the Queen down. “No!” He snapped as he covered the disfigured patch of skin with his hair, “I mean, I already told you this one’s _private_.”

“Fine. Then whence were you raised? Divulge all information on your home life.”

Uh oh, that’s not good. His throat suddenly quite dry, the boy sought not to sell out his folks. “Uhh… I was raised in the Clover Kingdom?”

Magna absolutely hated dating if it was just people taking turns making the other uncomfortable. Sitting in severe discomfort, he awaited the woman’s response; five agonizing seconds passed in which she kept her mouth a hard line. Then, that line squiggled into a smirk, accompanied by the words, “Okay, I’ll admit it, that was humorous. You forced my hand, you made me smirk.”

The woman kept smiling that tiny grin, looking wistfully at nowhere in particular while she mused, “I suppose I am enjoying myself, but this isn’t working at all…”

“Huh? What’s not working?”

“The interrogation, obviously. You _do_ realize that if you’re reticent any longer, I’ll have to force you to talk.”

“Hahaha, I guess I do.” The ambassador laughed, rubbing at the back of his head. “You know what? I’ll answer the next one, I swear.”

“Indeed? Well then, why don’t you admit you’re a spy.”

“What? I ain’t no spy, I’m just here to make peace.”

“That’s a convincing lie, but at least you answered this time.” She said, leaning closer to him, “Next up, where did you get that y’all. You speak like a commoner whenever your focus slips.”

“Heheh, do I? I guess nothing gets past you…”

“I asked where you lived.”

“The Clover Kingdom?”

“_Goodness_ fiancé, you can just tell me— you’re acting as if I’d have your family killed for crossing me. Although that’s not the worst assumption one could make.…”

Those words sent a chill down to Magna’s bones, and he sweat in his seat as he watched the Queen drag a finger across her throat in jest. The man though he might keel right over when their waiter arrived with the first course; barely hanging on while Sangue eyed him predatorily. Under the table, he could feel a heeled shoe’s point dig into his boots, and atop its surface her clawed hands crawled closer to him.

“Please Magnus, I truly desire your safety… it’d be so much easier if you answered like their lives depended on it. Not that they do.”

When her hand grazed his face, Magna jumped away with a start, which was the most painful thing that happened to him this entire month; he let out an anguished howl as his left arm collided with the maître d’s serving cart in the exact spot where he’d been shot. After hitting the floor, the man clutched at his reopened wound, and _wailed_.

The Queen bolted up from her seat at the sounds, aghast to hear that man scream— watching him writhe on the ground in horror. But when she saw blood seep through his suit’s white sleeve, her concern turned to anger; it had been less than two days, and the ambassador had already disobeyed his only order. And poor Magna, as he tried to ignore just how much pain he was in, chanced a glance up despite knowing his secret was out. He didn’t like what he saw. 

Sangue’s eyes became ferrous, and without a word, she clutched his left bicep within her claws— letting each nail sink _deeply_ into Magnus’ skin while he screamed. “I gave you direct orders. A goddamn _command_, and you disobeyed the first chance you got. Although to be fair, I should never’ve expected anything else from a man.”

She threw Magna back to the ground, standing over the terrified ambassador as he went limp. “It would seem I’ve given you far too much freedom, Magnus. I need a chess piece like you safe and compliant, and you therefore leave me no choice…”

At the sound of a snap, women in battle regalia teemed from behind every piece of furniture in the restaurant. “Guards, to the dungeon with our ‘guest’ here.”

The next hour passed in a haze, something the Queen did must have put him into a half-trance. He could make out the scrabbling of boots, faint voices, and little else; when his head finally cleared, Magna was locked up and shackled so thoroughly that he couldn’t even lift his hands. 

The ambassador freaked out as jailers dragged him through a medieval prison; his screams echoing through the dungeon like the walis of martyred saints. Each step deeper they went meant less light pouring in from outside; small candles illuminated the stone walls in lieu of sunshine until there was barely enough light to see at all. The jailers forced Magna’s manacled frame along the stone corridor despite his struggles, and literally threw him into the last cell in the hall.

Magna seized in breathless horror as the metal door enclosed him; he could see part of a woman’s face past the bars, and then a ring of keys jingled to seal him inside the prison. The shrill, clinking noise of those keys was the absolute worst thing he could’ve heard in that moment, and the boy clawed at the imposing barrier as he watched the jailers stalk away. 

There was no use scratching when he could barely lift his hands, and there was no use begging, but nether fact stopped him from trying. Desperation and dread sent him into a panic, screaming, “No! Mom! Mom! Let me out!!” while the only other people in the underground maze vanished into the darkness.

The cell door had become the basement door of his childhood home, and the walls began to close in around him. Suddenly, Magna couldn’t breathe. He was all alone in the blackened room, chest tight as he leant against an uncaring metal door. “Mom… no… it wasn’t my fault…”


	15. Hide Away Folk Family

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When last we saw Magna, he’d been sent reeling into grief by the sounds of a jailor’s keychain. The fire mage was slumped against a cell door, having finally been broken.

Here is a story about a young man. Not the same one we’ve been following thus far, but a relevant youth all the same. In a tiny peasant village at the outskirts of the Clover Kingdom, this man worked the mills assisted only by his wood magic; all alone after his parents’ retirement. His name was Alder, and he was a kindhearted, hardworking soul; considered an upstanding fellow in hushed tones by some, but known as a human doormat to many more. He’d never hurt a living thing in his life, and likely never would.

It was incredibly hard labor to grind a manual mill in solitude, but Alder had never once complained about that. It _was_ his job after all. And although many of the other villagers showed some appreciation for his work, none paid much interest in the one who made the town’s flour. To everyone in town, he was just the miller. That was, until the day a lone woman wandered into the grain silo. 

Alder had spent hours that morning carrying flour sack after sack into his cart for the market, hoping he’d be able to get back before sundown. The men who’d agreed to help out had flaked on him, and he doubted there was any way to finish the work in time. In his justifiable haste, he’d slipped on an uneven piece of flooring and made something twist; his back thrown out, the boy was stuck on the ground whilst someone new walked in on him.

“You having trouble down there?” Came a woman’s voice from the silo’s threshold. This interloper was watching him when he wasn’t even _close_ to ambulant, so Alder couldn’t help being a tad embarrassed.

“No, not at all.” The young man replied as politely as he could, feeling his face heat up like an unattended kettle. ”Well, okay I _am_, but I wouldn’t want to bother anyone.”

Her face barely reacting, the white-haired lady standing at the door stared at him a little longer, and said, “Hmm… I’ll help you up if you buy me dinner.”

The boy assured her not to worry, and that he’d be fine without help. After a solid two minutes trying and failing to right himself while the newcomer watched, Alder abashedly groaned. “What kind of dinner were you thinking?”

“Something with meat and booze!” She shouted as she mercilessly knuckled something in his lower back, “Oh, and by the way, my name’s Kicilia!”

Once the boy’s eyes had uncrossed from the ineffable sensation of his spine crunching back into place, he told her, “I’m A-Alder. It’s nice to meet ya.”

Their date began at the inn, the only place Alder knew where meat and booze could both be found. Over a din of boisterous, drunken peasants he learned that Kicilia was a blacksmith and a merchant, and that she had no interest in the mill, grain or silo— she only had eyes for the town’s miller. By the time their dinner ended, she’d yelled at every member of the waitstaff, and Alder had found one of the folks who’d promised to help him to market walking around town with a mask over his mouth, and a high fever. Though Alder wanted to say hello, Kicilia said the guy was kind of a bitch anyway and spirited her date away for some more fun on the town. 

Their night came to a close with a plastered lady pinning a young man into his door and staring him down until he’d quite nearly fainted. While Alder had never experienced anything like a whirlwind romance, Kicilia (and her _insane_ biceps) showed him things he never could’ve imagined. She ruined his schedule of working seven days a week, told him that was no way to live, and belittled his choices for relaxation whenever it meant she couldn’t join him. 

They shared a first kiss, a first argument, and a few other firsts you would _never_ tell polite company. Copper rings were exchanged a mere two months after they’d met, and it was a summer wedding. Alder was about seventeen at the time, and Kicilia twenty-six. 

Together, this happy couple had a son whom they named Cedar, blessed with his father’s wood magic. Their second child came a scant two years later while the first was still a babe, and this boy bore his mother’s flame magic. They’d gifted _him_ the name Magna. 

Soon enough, after building a cottage together on the village’s outskirts, the Swing family even found themselves with a daughter on their hands— not that they’d had any more kids, the elder child was simply a girl now. Alder, living in that quaint cabin with his beautiful family thought life was amazing. Even with the occasional food shortage or natural disaster, he still had his children and his darling wife to get through any challenges with. And Kicilia was always so sweet to them all. 

Except when she wasn’t. 

The folks around town assured Alder that the occasional smack from his wife was nothing to worry about, but increasingly often he would have to hide bruises in public. The young father felt small whenever he had to explain an injury to his children, but the man was ashamed with himself every time Magna or Cedar needed consolation after something their mom had done to them. 

In the time since Magna’s birth, Kicilia had taken to locking the him and his big sister in the basement for punishment, but that was in addition to her other methods of discipline. Just looking at his mom wrong meant Magna could go to bed without dinner, and anything resembling backtalk meant a thrashing— even when dad did it. But it wasn’t like she was all bad, because her hugs were always just tight enough, and she never forgot to get dessert if they had the money… even if Magna nearly had a heart attack at the sound of any jingling sounds these days.

It wasn’t long before the script was flipped, and the people around town grew concerned for the increasingly reclusive Swing family. They’d ask Alder whether everything was alright at home, or whether his wife’s drinking was under control, but he and the kids had become deeply accustomed with making excuses for Kicilia. Mom had a lot on her plate, after all. She was even celebrating her seventh year of sobriety; clean for Magna’s entire life.

She was beautiful, intelligent, strong, knew how to make a grand apology, and worked as tirelessly as an automaton, but were those actual virtues? Between the insults, beatings, and unexplained absences, Kicilia had turned every thing her husband and kids admired about her into a weapon. If she’d forgotten to unlock the basement for a few hours longer than she meant, Cedar might find a new ribbon on her bed. If she’d regretted a particularly nasty beating she’d given her son, Magna might be treated to an extra special dessert. 

Being family, Magna and his dad and big sister figured they had to accept all of mom, even when it hurt. But, one night, she did something they could never forgive. It was a simple key, something so unremarkable aside from the basement lock it accessed, and yet the mental image of that damned chunk of metal still made the entire family’s stomachs churn. 

On that night, one of the arguments that had become so routine between Kicilia and Alder kept escalating, and the younger husband, usually so soft spoken, had nearly raised his voice to match hers. Closer than they knew was safe, Magna and his big sister were hiding behind their bedroom wall to listen in, hoping the flickering candlelight wouldn’t give them away, unaware as always why their mom and dad were fighting.

Mommy started yelling about how she should be able to treat the kids however she wanted; practically shaking the walls as she powered each word into a shout. Daddy lowered his voice again, and said something about how she needs to be an adult for once in her life. Their parents’ talk was interrupted by a strident, echoing thud, and suddenly, dad fell silent.

Footsteps approached the children, carrying along with them the stench of a smithy’s brimstone, but far more obvious was the jingling of keys. The rattle of her mom’s keychain always sent a jolt of fear into Cedar’s heart, but for Magna the reaction was even worse; nearly _any_ bell, jingle or high-pitched sound would send the boy scrambling for a place to hide. For now, with nowhere else for asylum, Magna huddled deeper in his big sister’s arms. At the same time, the boy had also placed himself between his sister and the creeping sounds; hoping he could act like a shield despite all the adrenaline screaming at him to run.

Kicilia threw the door open, saw both her children cowering behind a bed in the candlelight, and asked them why the fuck they were acting so scared. Cedar asked why she was hurting dad again, gripping her arms tighter around her little brother for comfort.

“That idiot should’ve kept his mouth shut. I’m just keeping daddy in line. Listen baby, I only do this because I love you.”

Sniffling as her eyes watered, the daughter said, “But Grandma never hits us! I don’t think you love us at all!”

Cedar and Alder had grown meek from the constant bullying, yelling, and abuse, but Magna had a different response to his mother’s mistreatments… he grew _angry_. When Kicilia walked closer, sober yet irate, and nearly crushed Cedar’s wrist to yank her daughter to her feet, Magna finally snapped. 

The seven year old boy leapt straight from his sister’s grasp, and punched his mom in the kneecap with all his might. The patella didn’t take the impact well, and neither did Kicilia; slamming Magna to the ground without a moment’s hesitation after being sent down to one leg. Their white-haired bully let her son know that this would _not_ go unpunished. Magna fought at his mother’s hand as she held him down by the collar and pulled out her keychain, a hideous sneer across her beautiful features. 

He’d rarely seen mom so mad before, and felt a frigid sweat run down his neck as she singled out a key sharper than the rest between her fingers. Kicking uselessly at air, Magna stared up at the angry woman as she balled up her hand into a fist.

“Big mistake, young man.”

Back in the kitchen, as Alder nursed the new bruise on his neck, he was startled by the harrowing sound of a child screaming. He coughed a few times as he rose to his feet, but once the battered man got steady, he ran as fast as he could toward that awful sound.

He saw Cedar sobbing in the middle of her bedroom as she pawed at her bruised wrist, but Kicilia was nowhere to be seen. In an instant, Alder rushed to hold his child and let Cedar cry into his shoulder while he stared out into the middle distance. He just let her sob, hugging her tight until he noticed someone else was missing. 

In one shaky motion, the wood mage stood up and glanced around the room; praying that Cedar was the one who’d screamed bloody murder just a moment ago. But, lying in the darker portion of the room, there was a ring of bloodied keys on the floor, a flower pot cracked apart in ceramic splinters, and Magna lying motionless in a gathering pool of blood. He had a ghastly head injury, the kind that couldn’t be left untreated for fear of something that a ten year old should _never_ be concerned with.

“Mommy started hurting him again, and he, he… Magna stopped moving.” The girl said between choked breaths, confirming everything Alder that feared.

Placing both his hands on Cedar’s trembling shoulders, the dad gave her a fake smile, and said, “Listen, your little brother’s gonna be just fine. I just need you to get that bag we prepared—the one under the candle drawer, and meet me outside.”

She nodded her agreement and fled into the other room as her dad lifted Magna from the ground; searching the bedroom for anything that might help, Alder saw only a few toys and bedclothes strewn across the floor. And all that goddamn blood.

They convened outside soon after, where nothing more than the stars illuminated the darkened sky of the forsaken realm when Alder escaped into the night with his two young children. Cedar could still make the trip on foot, but Alder had to swaddle his son in blankets just to stymie the bleeding. The pair of wood mages cast a glance over their shoulders, and prayed that Mom wouldn’t notice their absence too soon as father and daughter crested the first blackened hill past the town border.

The journey to another village was fraught with cold, the distant cries of wolves, and the very real fear that Magna might bleed out. Alder didn’t know how close or far they were from the nearest healer, so there was no way to be certain Magna would be okay. He pushed these horrid thoughts to the back of his mind, and didn’t dare voice them to Cedar. Besides… as long as they were out of that house, they still felt safer.

This particular night was still ready to make the Swing family suffer, however, as within scarce miles of the nearest village—just when they assumed they were home free—they were waylaid by a pack of mountain bandits. And not just any old muggers either. Of all ruffian gangs in the county, it just so happened to be the infamous gang led by Roxanne: A criminal renowned for her violence, greed and cruelty. 

The bandits encircled them until there was no possible escape route, a setup perfect for any of the larcenous mages to strike. Roxanne looked down the blade of her knife at the cold, frightened family and felt a thrill run up her spine when she noticed just how tightly this man was clutching the parcel within his arms. She’d been around long enough to know people do that with things that are _truly_ valuable.

Stalking up to Alder with the tip of her knife glistening under the dappled starlight, the bandit leader made her threats obvious; her eyes signaled to the tightly bundled blanket, and she dragged a finger across her throat. When that wasn’t enough to make the man speak, Roxanne slammed a hand onto her grimoire.

“Please, we don’t have any money.” Alder lied, feeling his already sore legs shake like trees in a storm as the confrontation threatened to escalate. “You can have some of our supplies, but don’t hurt us.”

“You seriously think you can order me ‘round?” The bandit leader said, backing him into her lackeys with her knife like it were a cattle prod, “Show me whatcha got in that bundle, _now_. Yer’ actin’ like it’s more important than your own life.”

Holding the swaddled parcel even closer to his body, Alder met her eyes and said, “He is.”

“Wait. _He_?” Roxanne asked as she wrested the top of the blanket away from Alder’s chest. Looking at what was inside her target’s bundle made her back up, just enough for her reaction to be visible. The roughneck sheathed her weapon, and looked absolutely pissed. 

Turning back from her marks in a huff, the bandit lady ordered her compatriots, “Get these people into the village! _now_!”

Under the guard of an entire pack of bandits, the peasant family made their way into Rayaka village before the sun rose again. Although they’d arrived long before the boy could bleed out, the village’s clinic couldn’t heal Magna’s head soon enough to avoid the worst of the possible damage, and the boy was scarred for life. For the rest of time, a mark etched on his forehead was the subject of endless questions regarding its origin, and Magna would just say that this particular scar was ‘personal’. 

Magna’s family stayed in town until he’d healed enough to leave, and they continued living in Rayaka long after; permanently making residence once they’d settled in.

His dad fell once again into that pitfall most call ‘love’, and married the very criminal who’d saved his family on that frightful night. It took a couple years for Alder to stop flinching when Roxanne raised her hand, but he was never scared of the boisterous, animated, and violent woman. It was by that point just an embarrassing habit for him. 

And the ruffian herself had more than enough room in her heart for a family; having eyes for a man too soft for his own good, even if she was the sort to hide knives on her person. Cedar too, got along famously with their new mom, but Magna…

Magna would go on to call this roughneck his ‘wicked stepmother’, and the boy remained deeply troubled for the rest of his childhood. 

—————————————

Back in the present, in the deepest, darkest recesses of a Queen’s castle, a solitary ray of light shone into Magna’s cell. The Clover ambassador didn’t know how long he’d been stuck within the stone chamber, but it wasn’t more than a few everlasting hours. Regardless, he’d been left alone just long enough for the memories to return. 

He’d cried too often lately for anything like a teardrop to leave his lachrymal ducts, and after everything else these past few days, he was feeling pretty numb. Besides, Magna had already dealt with the past— his concern now was with an uncertain future. He tried stretching his back out, but the chains made it rather onerous.

Notably in the present, bootsteps echoed through the dungeon, bearing with them the light of a solitary lantern. The sight and sounds swept down the stone halls until their movement stopped right at the path’s end.

“Magnus? Are you holding up? It’s me.” Deandra said on the far side of the prison’s impassive door. She stood up on her boots to reach the viewport and peered in at the room’s lone occupant.

Magna was leaning against the metal wall, shackled thoroughly, and without a hint of his usual energy; the man didn’t put on any affectation of masculinity or emotion, and simply asked, “So the Queen’s just been usin’ me. And you knew the entire time, didn’tchya?”

“Magnus, I…” the chamberlain started, searching for something profound to say but coming up with only sincerity. “Yeah, I knew.”

“Look, I don’t blame you or nothin’, it’s just,” Magna searched the right words, “I thought I could actually trust you. Friends are s’pposed to have each other’s backs, and you sold me out.”

Deandra looked deeply offended by the implication in his words, “Wait, you don’t think I told her anything, did you?”

He cast a glance up past his glasses to actually look the woman in her eyes, weary but with piqued interest, “Huh? You mean ya didn’t-?“

“That’s right! I never told my Queen a thing!” The witch shouted right over Magna’s hesitance, “Your secrets are safe with good old Deandra! After all, we’re no-kiss sisters!”

“_No-kiss sisters_?” The fire mage leaned back while he giggled and conceded, “Can’t say it’s all that manly, but it’s got a nice ring to it. I’d… high five ya, but my hands are kinda shackled in here.”

“Seriously? It’s like you’re only ever in fifty-kilogram handcuffs when you wanna high five!”

“Well, maybe I deserve to live a life without high-fives for daring to call you a snitch.”

“At least you didn’t call me a bitch!”

The pair shared a big, hearty laugh through the barred viewport, but after their chuckles died down like a symphony winding down from a fortissimo, Magna wiped at his eyes with a shoulder to ask, “Say, Dee… am I going to die?”

Those words snapped the the witch right out of her jocular mood, and she leapt up in surprise at his attitude. “No! You’re not going to die! The Witch Queen is coming back to interrogate you soon, and she said she needs you in one piece. She’s… she’s just trying to keep you safe.”

“How can you so sure?” Magna asked, looking utterly exhausted as he rose to his feet.

“I’m not! But she’s the one who healed your arm, and it’s better to remain positive in hopeless situations. Besides— why are you so scared of a little ‘_dying_’ anyway, Magnus?”

“Its just a promise I made. I know it must seem kinda weird to like, actually be afraid of death, but I always keep a promise. And, uhh, Dee, would you like ta keep one more secret for me?” 

Magna waited for the witch’s affirmative nod, then told her, “My real name isn’t Magnus Wing. That’s just an ingenious fake name I came up with to keep my families safe.”

“Oooh…” the little witch awed, under the impression she’d just received some kind of confidential state matter. “Wait, did you say ‘Families’? People don’t usually say that in plural.”

“Oh yeah, I don’t really think about it that often, but I’ve got two back home. One in my hometown, and another with the Black Bulls. I love them all more than I know how to say, and I swore that I’d see ‘em all again someday.” 

Deandra watched the ambassador’s face take on an air of reminiscence. As his expression shifted back to a look of calm defeat, Magna said, “Well, I’m probably not the only prisoner you need to check up with, so if you’re busy…”

“—Actually, Jackass is fine, so I was thinking I could stick around here for a while longer.” The Ace girl said, rolling her eyes conspiratorially about the dim dungeon, “And maybe even share a couple jokes I’ve been working on!”

Perking up like a puppy despite the myriad bindings locking his posture, the fire mage had to make sure of something. “Are the jokes any good?”

“Oh, trust me, they’re _horrible_.”

“Then what are ya waitin’ for? Gimme your _worst_.” Magna said, grinning like a serial killer through the bars of the viewport. Had the chamberlain been a saner person, she might’ve thought it scary.

Matching her captive audience’s toothy smile, and bouncing slightly on her heels, Deandra began to jest. “Hahaha! Okay, Magnus, prepare to suffer! So, here’s an awful one: A sad clown and ten narcoleptic horses walk into a bar…”


End file.
